


What We Choose

by Crisium



Series: What We Become [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 138,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crisium/pseuds/Crisium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N: This story is an immediate sequel to the story "What We Become" and is bound not to make even a tiny bit of sense unless you read that story first. Dragon Age belongs to Bioware and this is merely me playing in their sandbox, and I will put everything back when I'm done.<br/>All that said: Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story is an immediate sequel to the story "What We Become" and is bound not to make even a tiny bit of sense unless you read that story first. Dragon Age belongs to Bioware and this is merely me playing in their sandbox, and I will put everything back when I'm done.  
> All that said: Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story.

She shouldn't have killed Loghain.

That's really where it all started to go wrong, Therrin thinks, pitching from side to side with the sway of the carriage. If she hadn't killed Loghain (or rather, let Alistair do it, which all amounted to the same thing in the end) then Loghain could have died like a proper Grey Warden, there wouldn't be the formless threat of an Old God child lurking out there somewhere, Anora could've stayed queen, and Alistair would be the one sitting in this miserable little carriage on his way to being Warden-Commander while _she_ could wash her hands of the entire affair.

She hadn't wanted to be a Grey Warden in the first place. Being made the Warden-Commander of Ferelden has a certain bitter irony to it that makes her grit her teeth and makes her nausea worse.

Easier to try and figure out how it had come to this in the first place, and at least it's a distraction to follow the line of thought backwards. If only she had made it away from Duncan on her one (admittedly pathetic) attempt at running away, or if she'd told Jowan _no, go stuff it, I'm not getting your stupid rod of fire._

_This is your fault_, she accuses silently.

But the Jowan that sticks most clearly in her memory is a beaten man, scarred and weary in a cell too small to lie down in, and all the feeling she can muster at the thought of him is grief.

Therrin sighs and rubs her forehead with her hand, suppressing a curse as the carriage shakes to the side and she cracks her head against the paneled interior. She hadn't ever ridden in a carriage before, only a cart, and that had been a different thing entirely. Bodhan's cart had pitched and shaken as it rolled down the road, and it hadn't been the most comfortable thing in the world by any means but it had been a respite from the ceaseless walking that seemed to come hand-in-hand with being a Grey Warden.

When Alistair offered a carriage to transport her and her little band to Amaranthine she had readily accepted, thinking that it would be even more convenient and comfortable than those afternoons sitting in the merchant-cart, listening to Sandal hum tunelessly under his breath as the countryside rolled by.

It isn't.

No one else seems disturbed by it, though, so Therrin holds her tongue. Dog whines now and then, when the carriage jolts and he can't get proper footing, but there's nothing she can do about that but rub his ears in reassurance. Mhairi and Cullen are both silent.

Therrin had hoped to get information out of Mhairi, even just a little, but apparently the Orlesian Wardens keep their recruits largely in the dark. Mhairi sits stiffly on the bench, looking studiously at a spot on the opposite wall and swaying when the carriage jerks to the side.

Cullen doesn't seem bothered at all. He sits in place with his usual patience, watching the landscape roll by, one hand on Stephen's back. Stephen had fallen asleep practically as soon as the carriage started moving. Therrin feels a vague pang of envy as her stomach lurches again, the carriage juddering over an uneven patch of ground.

"Is everything all right, Commander?" Mhairi looks even more tense than before, a furrow of concern between her brows.

_I'm going to be sick, would it be too much trouble to stop the carriage so I can throw up in the bushes? _But Therrin doesn't say that. She smiles instead, a bit tightly. "Fine. How much farther?"

-oOo-

Cullen never had much experience with traveling. He'd been at the monastery for most of his youth, and the only journey he can really remember from then is when he had been sent to take up his post at the Tower. He had been too nervous at the time for anything like admiring the scenery. After that, the only other voyage he can think of is the trip from the Tower to Denerim, but his memories of that aren't all clear, and mostly not the sort he wants to dwell on.

This trip is different. He wouldn't have expected Amaranthine to be beautiful, but it is. He watches, fascinated, as they roll down the road through fields and forests, hills and hollows, the river sparkling in the sunlight when they cross it. The trees grow thick by the roadside, and when they stop for a rest, he walks around beneath them to stretch his legs in their cool, deep shade.

Therrin, he realizes, doesn't like traveling. She had looked a bit uncomfortable inside the carriage, though she hadn't complained, but when he finds her in the trees nearby she's bent over with her hands braced on her thighs, looking so ill Cullen can't help but ask, "Are you all right?"

Therrin squeezes her eyes shut. "Lovely. Never better." Before he can protest, she says, "I _hate_ carriages."

"We're making good time, though," Cullen points out reasonably. "It would have taken us days to make this sort of progress, walking. And the driver said that it's only about an hour more to an inn. We'll stop for the night and then it's not far on to Vigil's keep in the morning."

The news isn't greeted with the relief he expected; Therrin groans in dejection. "Another hour?"

"It isn't so bad," Cullen argues mildly. "You have to loosen up, that's the trick to it. Move with the carriage and not against it."

Therrin grimaces at him through the curtain of her hair, utterly unappreciative and ready to retort, but whatever she would've said gets cut off when Mhairi calls for them through the trees and once again, it's time to leave.

Thankfully the sour mood seems to lift when they reach the inn. They have no trouble getting rooms at all. The inside is nearly deserted. The innkeeper is amiable enough and becomes even more so at the sight of silver, and at Therrin's invitation he sits down at the table with them, recounting all the rumors he'd heard from recent travelers, only pausing now and again for a drink of ale.

Cullen listens carefully, mulling everything over: smugglers on the coast, a wild tale of ghosts to the east, a squad of templars that had spent the night at the inn before heading out early the next morning on a fast march to the city. At that, Therrin glances Cullen's way and they share a look.

Squads of templars aren't sent out lightly, especially not with their numbers still decimated. If they had been headed out quickly, they were hunting something. Someone. Cullen files the information away and keeps his silence.

At last, Mhairi shifts, visibly tired. "Warden-Commander, if you've no objections…"

"Of course," Therrin says immediately. "Go on. We'll try for an early start tomorrow."

"Warden-Commander?" the innkeeper echoes, hands stilling on the table. "You're… you're the Hero of Ferelden, aren't you?"

Cullen buries a smile in his mug as Therrin almost manages not to cringe. "That's me."

The innkeeper beams, ruddy-cheeked and leaning back in his chair. "That's _something_. That whole business with the Blight and Archdemon and all. Andraste's scanty knickers." Cullen frowns at him. The innkeeper doesn't notice. "My brother's wife had a little boy last winter. They named him after you," the innkeeper goes on cheerfully. "'Course, we didn't know you was a woman, then."

Cullen laughs too quickly to hide it and tries to cough to cover it up, but Mhairi only looks puzzled. "Didn't know the Commander was a woman?"

"Therrin," Therrin explains tiredly, looking into the depths of her drink. "Therrin is a boy's name."

Mhairi looks doubtful. "I see." When nothing more is forthcoming, she straightens. "Commander."

Once Mhairi disappears upstairs, followed by Dog and Stephen under orders to wash, Therrin sighs. "At least it won't be all day tomorrow, I suppose."

"True." Cullen watches as she pulls out silvers and pushes them over to the innkeeper, who smiles as he scoops them up and tucks them into his pocket as he leaves.

Therrin leans into her chair, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand and considering him in silence, eyes thoughtful. "Could I come talk to you, later?"

It shouldn't make Cullen's stomach flip but it does, all unexpected. He swallows hastily, trying to gauge what she'd want to talk about. Her expression doesn't give anything away. "Of course. But…" He gestures at the table, at their chairs and the little space between them. "We're talking now, so…?"

"Not here," Therrin dismisses, looking pensive. "In your room. It's private."

The words do nothing at all to ease the sudden nervousness in his chest, the overeager hope insisting that maybe things were going much better than he'd thought.  Matters between them had been companionable enough, if not always comfortable, but he hadn't known how to proceed from companionable to anything more. "Of course." He glances upstairs. "Should we—"

"Oh, no," Therrin interrupts. "Not now. Once Stephen's asleep." She offers an odd, nervous expression, not quite a smile. "It could take a while. I wouldn't want to be interrupted."

_That doesn't mean what you think it does_, he scolds himself, though he isn't going to complain if it does. "Of course," Cullen says again, trying to get a handle on his own traitorous thoughts. "Later, then."

She smiles—a faint, uneasy expression—and pushes away from the table, heading upstairs.

Cullen sits for long minutes in solitude before he heads to his rented room. No matter how many different things it might be she would want to come speak to him about, his mind keeps circling back to the one thing, persistent as a dog. It seems a very long time later that there's a quick double-tap knock on his door, and when he opens it he finds Therrin in the hallway, unsettled and creasing the corner of an envelope between her fingers. She looks at his hand on the door, the little space nearly blocked. "Can I come in?"

Cullen steps back to allow her entry, wondering why she seems jumpy as he pushes the door shut. Her gaze darts around the little room for a moment before it lands on him. "I thought the room would be bigger."

"It's fine," Cullen says, starting to frown. "Are you all right?"

"Not really," Therrin says, a little strained. "I have something to tell you. To give you, actually, but before you have it—" _It_ must be the envelope, Cullen thinks, watching her fold and refold the corner of it into a crease. "I wanted to tell you that it only worked out this way as a sort of last resort. There wasn't a lot of time between being told to go to Amaranthine and leaving the Tower, remember; between the… the Chantry and the lyrium situation and everything…" She grimaces. "Wynne wanted me to give this to you, but only after you'd made it through the withdrawal."

She holds out the envelope, plain but for the green wax of the seal.

"Wynne?" Cullen echoes dubiously, taking it out of her hands and wondering why she seems so perturbed. "I don't understand."

Therrin nods once, uneasily. "I know. It's a letter, I think. Personal. If you'd rather I go—"

"No, of course not." Cullen breaks the seal. "Stay."

Therrin lapses into silence as he pulls out the papers, unfolding them with a frown and turning them to read. They crinkle in his hands, creased so tightly they seem hesitant to open.

_Dear Cullen,_

_This is not a letter I would ever have anticipated myself writing, and I doubt this is a letter you would ever have anticipated reading. These aren't good circumstances by any means, and I hope you believe I'm sorry for having to resort to telling you this in a letter, but as I write this, the Tower is in a state of controlled confusion, and you, I believe, are in no state to discuss anything._

_I hope that by the time you read this, you are well._

_Certain developments from years gone by have recently come together, developments, I think, that neither of us were ever supposed to be made explicitly aware of, but which stand to impact the both of us._

_Some years ago, I had an involvement with a templar. Though the details are perhaps best left in the past, the consequences of this involvement are a matter of concern to both of us: I bore a child, a son, who was taken from me by the templars and given to the Chantry. _

Cullen frowns down at the paper, ill at ease. He wouldn't have thought Wynne, of all people… and with a _templar__?_ It had to have been hushed up. A scandal of that sort would have been talked about for years. "Did you know Wynne had a son?"

Therrin gives him an odd look. "Yes. She talked about it a little, during the Blight."

Strange, he thinks. Granted, yes, probably not the cheeriest topic of conversation, and he can't think why she would feel compelled to write him a letter about it. He shakes himself and keeps reading.

_Until recently I thought the matter to be simply an old, painful memory, well-buried in the past. I realize now that it was always otherwise, and that the evidence was, in a very real way, right in front of me for years. _

_I realize this must come as a terrible shock, and I'm sorry to have to give you the news like this, but I know of no other way to tell you except plainly: the templar who fathered my child was Greagoir, and that child, Cullen, is you._

It doesn't register at first. Instead Cullen feels numb, oddly heavy as though his heartbeat's gone sluggish. He scans the line again, and it reads exactly the same before.

No, he thinks, shuddering against a sudden cold that seems to radiate from the inside out. It isn't—_can't_—be true, it's impossible, it's _ridiculous_ because he's an orphan and he wouldn't… _Greagoir_ wouldn't…

His mind scrabbles against the feeling of falling, holding onto the thought of Greagoir like an anchor because Greagoir would never have carried on an affair with a mage, _never_. He glances up to tell Therrin and she only looks somber, and it runs icy under his skin then that she knows.

Name of Andraste, she knows, and some irrational, circling whine at the back of head insists that if she knows then it's true because as long as it's only in his own mind it's unreliable and can't be trusted. But the words of the letter couldn't be plainer, and he had never known Wynne to be a liar before. The traitorous memory creeps in—of all the things to remember, of all the things to be absolutely clear—after Greagoir had died (and Cullen had found him, his body already cold), of how Wynne had seemed to stop and no one had known what to do, and he'd found the ribbon and Wynne had asked to take it.

It feels like truth, mercilessly hard. His stomach rebels and for a moment he feels sick, a hot surge of anger making him squeeze his eyes closed. The threads of his memory are already rearranging themselves to accommodate the new information as he realizes he'd been lied to, year after year a lie of omission ever since that day at the Chantry when Greagoir had come and looked over the lined-up boys and singled out Cullen and _templar_ had become his new identity.

Something darker than anger seeps through the back of his mind, a cold, precise disgust that's easier to bear than the grief.

Wynne is a mage, and fallible, and so he can't have expected anything from her, but _you_ he thinks at the memory of Greagoir in his mind. _You could have told me, any day for all those years you could have said something and you didn't, and you made me stand there and listen to your lectures on duty and vows as though you hadn't made a mockery of them yourself._

Cullen re-folds the letter with a painstaking economy of movement, utterly disinterested in the unread pages and tucking them back into the envelope before tossing it onto the table. "You knew."

Carefully, Therrin nods.

He swallows, a knot in his throat, his voice raspy to his own ears. "Since when?"

"Since right before we left the Tower," she answers, watching him closely.

Cullen laughs but it hurts in his chest and sounds miserably bitter. "You never thought to _tell_ me?" But when he looks at her she only seems more worried than before, her eyes cutting to the door as though she's calculating the number of steps it might take to get safely away from him.  One outburst would be all it'd take; one fit of temper and she'd be gone and all this trying between them would be for nothing.

Cullen reins in his anger sharply, forcing it down and holding it in where it's safe. "You'd better go," he manages, leaning against the little table and curling his hands around the edge, feeling his knuckles go bloodlessly white.

Therrin hesitates. "I'm sorry for—"

"Don't be," he interrupts shortly. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything." Therrin doesn't look convinced and doesn't move. "We're leaving early tomorrow," he reminds her, impatient. "I'd like you to go, please."

Therrin winces, but without another word she slips out the door and leaves him alone.

So much for that_. _Cullen could almost laugh now, all disbelieving, because he'd been so hopeful that when she came to see him it would be for something good. Something better than this. Anything would have been better than this.

Enough, he thinks, and blows out the candle. It's pointless to think about it, any of it. In the darkness he stretches out on the little bed and tries to sleep, but it's impossible. Every time he dozes off his brain snaps to attention, years of memories pressing hard at his mind, the implications of the letter piercing through the haze of darkness. He has a mother, and she is alive, and she is a mage. But his father… he'd thought his father was dead before, he tells himself, and he is. Nothing is different. Nothing has changed.

The envelope catches his eye from its place on the table, and just then it seems the source of all his troubles. He rolls out of bed and takes the letter, heading downstairs. No one is up, still, no one is watching, and he tosses the mostly-unread letter into the fire, watching until there isn't anything left of it but ashes before he starts back to bed.

It doesn't help him sleep any easier at all.


	2. Welcome Home

The carriage isn't any more tolerable the second day. Though Therrin tries as subtly as she can to move with the carriage instead of against it like Cullen had said it isn't that easy. The second time she knocks her head against the wood of the interior she gives up and just tries to move as little as possible.

At least the ride isn't that long this time. The sun still hadn't come up by the time they got underway, and within an hour and a half Therrin could make out the shape of their destination ahead, the fortress a hulking grey shadow against the grey of the sky.

Vigil's Keep.

The thought of the Wardens ahead makes disquiet stir in an ugly current beneath her breastbone, the memory of Morrigan's ritual pressing in hard like damnation. _They're going to know_ hisses in a quiet whisper at her brain, accompanied by the thought's usual knife-twist of fear. She wasn't a very good Warden to begin with. The thought that she'll stand there among them and nod in the right places about duty and sacrifice makes her feel more than a little ill. If she'd been the Warden she was supposed to be, she would be dead.

But the carriage-driver deposits them at the first of a series of gates and there's nothing to do but go onward. Stephen is keenly interested in Vigil's Keep and Dog dashes back and forth, sniffing everything with ears pricked forward. Therrin squelches a flare of dread and follows them both.

Cullen hadn't spoken a word all morning. She doesn't know what to make of that. She wishes, briefly, that she hadn't given him the letter, but doesn't know what else she was supposed to do.

As it is, the sight of him is distracting, for more reasons than that. She's never going to get used to the sight of Cullen in splintmail. But she's only begun to ponder having a new set of armor made when she feels it, a sluggish crawl through her veins, a forceful yank at her attention: darkspawn, nearby. Almost as soon as the sensation manifests Therrin spots a man hurtling down the road, too fast for proper coordination, a trio of darkspawn at his heels.

The sky above rumbles with thunder as it opens up, rain slants down hard in frigid patters against them, and with no more preparation than that they're embattled.

It had been different fighting with Alistair. They'd had months and months to perfect a strategy, so that when they felt that flare that meant darkspawn they could be ready in a moment. She had known the exact reach of his sword and shield and he had known to the inch the breadth of her spells, where to move and where not to and where to place himself to best defend them both.

It becomes clear immediately that Mhairi has never fought with a mage before. Twice in the space of a minute she charges into Therrin's hissing field of ice and twice Therrin has to heal her, but when Therrin tries to put distance between herself and the path of Mhairi's advance, she runs into Cullen instead.

The mistake is almost a fatal one. Therrin was used to fighting with Alistair but Alistair had favored longswords; Cullen's greatsword has a longer reach. She gets caught by a backswing, the very tip of Cullen's sword slicing a neat line through the top of her arm, not deep but painful and accompanied by an unwelcome surge of panic. An accident, she tells herself as the last hurlock dies and Cullen turns to say something. Not an attack, she thinks, willing her pounding heart to slow. An accident.

Whatever Cullen would have said gets lost as he looks at her, alarmed. She reaches for a healing spell and doesn't look at him, focusing only on the magic required to make the muscle reknit and the skin seal back together. Rain washes the blood into streaks that drip down off her elbow, and she chides herself _idiot, another foot and it would have been your head. Would it kill you to be more careful?_

"It's fine," she tells him, wiping the last of the blood away. When she glances up he looks pale as paper. "It's fine," she says again. "Look, hardly a scratch."

He still looks horrified, and when he speaks, his voice is thick. "I'm sorry."

"I was the one who got in the way." Therrin shakes off the distraction, trying to feel out the darkspawn-sense around her. Something's here, something odd and unnatural that makes the taint seem to shudder in her veins. The man who'd been running is pummeling a fallen hurlock, the mace in his hands swinging over and over in heavy arcs, splattering darkspawn blood everywhere and Therrin can't help but wince. "Stop. _Stop_ that. What's going on?"

He stops swinging and staggers a little as he straightens, looking lost. "You. You're the Hero of Ferelden, aren't you?"

"Yes," Therrin answers impatiently, "I am. Where are the Grey Wardens? What's going on?" _Why are darkspawn attacking the home of the Wardens? _"And who's in charge?"

_You're the Warden-Commander_, she remembers, _it could well be_ _you_. But there isn't time to dwell on it. More darkspawn are coming down the road, and the man stammers out something about a mage behind him before he runs off for the road, looking for reinforcements.

Therrin was just on the road, and knows there aren't any reinforcements for miles.

Battle seems to take forever. The attacks come as though trickling through an hourglass: a pocket of genlocks here, a pair of shrieks there, an emissary with a spell that knocks Mhairi to the dust. Apparently Cullen's templar talents really had survived perfectly intact; the emissary is still reeling from being stripped of mana when Mhairi recovers and runs it through.

The progress they make feels excruciatingly slow. For every clear stretch of empty space there's a necessary backtrack, or a barricade to dismantle, or bandages to go fetch for the wounded. Worry makes the time seem to stretch out slow, and without so much as a glimpse of another Warden Therrin can't help but feel that something beyond the appearance of the darkspawn is terribly wrong. It seems to take forever just to get inside the Keep. When they do, a huddle of shrieks falls upon them immediately, long arms flying and maws open wide, keening cries splitting the air.

There isn't time for thought or strategy or anything but reaction and they all strike out at once, weapons flying and spells building, desperate for cover and finding none. Dog snarls and barks at the shriek that lunges for Stephen, and before she can make it over there's a jerk of magic from Stephen, unsteady and with more instinct than skill but enough. The shriek howls as Stephen's spell washes over it, an uneven, crackling sheet of ice that forces the creature into slowness, limbs going heavy with frost; at the sweep of Cullen's blade the sound stops with a wet crunch and the darkspawn falls to the stone, dead.

The silence after that seems to hang as Stephen's face falls. "No, no. Here," Therrin steps awkwardly over the fallen bodies to his side, leaning on her staff for balance.

When she gets close enough he throws his arms around her waist and buries his face in her side. "I'm _scared_."

"I know," she says, squinting to see in the dimness of the fortress and putting a soothing hand to the top of his head. He shouldn't even have to see this, much less have to defend himself. If this is because of some lapse in the Wardens' defenses, whoever's responsible is going to be hearing about it. "I know," she tells him again. "You did fine, don't worry. But stay close."

Cullen's head snaps up and he frowns. "Someone's casting," he says after a moment, voice low and urgent. "That way."

Therrin grips her staff tighter. "That'll be our mage, then."

They sprint after Cullen, racing up stairs and down through a short hallway, and in a matter of moments Therrin can hear the sounds of a fire spell, roaring in a small space. She rounds the corner and throws up a hand the shield her eyes from the brightness, the light of the flame blinding at the backs of her eyes. Spots dance in her vision but she sees the outline of the darkspawn as it falls, hears its groan as it drops to the stone, and her sight is just beginning to clear when she hears, "Hey! I know _you_."

Therrin's stomach plummets in a heartbeat at sound of the familiar voice. Sure enough when she blinks again she sees Anders, shaking heat off his hands and smiling crookedly. "Sherry, right? What are you doing here?"

Therrin hesitates, dumbstruck and thinking _I could ask you the same thing_, but Cullen sucks in a breath and Therrin realizes the floor is littered with the bodies of dead templars.

A hot wave of horror washes through her at the sight, too reminiscent of the Tower under attack. There are long smears of blood against the walls and distorted heaps of metal on the floor, remnants of armor and men torn apart. Her head spins for a moment, the commingled smells of death and darkspawn and smoke making it hard to breathe.

Anders doesn't appear to notice. "Wait, not Sherry. Perrin. Terry. Rosemary?"

"Therrin." And _this_ is almost too bizarre for words, to have Anders, here, after months and months of thinking that she and Wynne were almost all that was left of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. Vigil's Keep is the last place she would have expected to run into another mage.

"_That_ was it. Therrin." But before Therrin can demand to know what he's doing here and why he's standing on a pile of dead templars (though she has the feeling she already knows and Maker help her Cullen's turning red with fury) Anders is already distracted, looking appreciatively at Mhairi. "Well, _hello_."

Mhari's mouth tightens. "You aren't a Warden."

"True." He takes a step closer, toeing a dead templar's arm out of the way. "But surely a lovely woman like yourself wouldn't hold such trivialities against me."

"What have you done?" Cullen demands, utterly cold.

Anders snorts. "Defended myself, what else? The darkspawn aren't much for chatting. Oh, you mean _them_." He waves a casual hand at the fallen templars. "Apparently heavy armor isn't that useful after all. And all the shiny templar tricks? Rubbish against darkspawn." He sighs eloquently. "So sad, really. I'm all kinds of torn up. Do you have anything to eat?"

"You killed these men?" Therrin's voice cracks at the sudden dryness of her throat. Cullen looks murderous. She thought they'd had problems enough with the darkspawn.

"Me? Oh, no. That was all the darkspawn." Anders shrugs, unconcerned. "We all banded together, you know, held hands and sang an uplifting little tune about solidarity against the monsters. Then they died. Tragically." He makes a face. "But I didn't do it."

It's clear from his expression that Cullen doesn't believe a word of it, and before it can get any further out of hand Therrin presses, "What are you doing here?"

"At Amaranthine? Or… are we still in Amaranthine? Dunno." He glances around the floor. "Slight difference of opinion. They wanted to go back to the Circle, I wanted to go… well, anywhere but back to the Circle. These things happen. Shame." He makes a face. "Why are you here? I can't imagine they finally let you off your leash for giggles."

Mhairi stiffens. "You're speaking to the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, apostate."

Anders only laughs. "The Warden-Commander of Ferelden? Therrin?" He snorts. "Right, tell me another."

Stephen peeks out at Anders from behind her hip, wary but impressed and clinging to the sash of her robes. "You're a mage too?"

"Too?" Anders laughs. "Guilty as charged. It's practically mage-party in here, isn't it?" he goes on, eyeing Therrin's staff. "What d'you call a group of mages outside the Circle? A flock? A battalion of mages? An insurrection—"

"Enough," Therrin manages. The stones of the fortress are still echoing with noise, the feeling of darkspawn nearby still prickling through her skin. "We don't have time for this. There's darkspawn around, and—"

"I, ah." Anders coughs, prodding a dead hurlock with the tip of his staff. "May have noticed that. I'll come with you. You sword-and-armor types are handy for the running and slashing bit. Keeps me from having to get my hands dirty."

The pressure of Cullen's hand closing around her arm takes Therrin by surprise as he tows her a little way back down the hall, looking mutinous. "You _can't_ be thinking of taking him with us."

"Do you want to leave him here? Alone?" she retorts, watching his expression change as he registers the idea. "Or would you rather have him where you can keep an eye on him? We're under attack. Until we get this sorted we can't afford to turn away help. Even his help."

Cullen scowls, a hard expression, but he doesn't argue the point. "When this is done…"

"We'll investigate," she promises. "The other Wardens will know what's going on and we can make a decision then. But we don't know yet." A scream echoes faintly somewhere down the hallway, cut off mid-sound. "We don't have time. We've got to go."

After a moment he nods, shortly, falling into step behind her, the whole mismatched band trailing after her as she sets off down the hallway.

"Wait a minute," Anders says behind her, suspicious and contemplative. When she glances over her shoulder he's peering at Cullen, brow furrowed. "You look _damned_ familiar. Do I know you?"

"No," Cullen grinds out, disgusted.

"I think I do. I never forget a face. You were… hmm. Where do I know you from?"

Therrin increases her pace, trying not to let worry lead her thoughts into hopeless places. The darkspawn are everywhere and the Keep is besieged and with the pair of men behind her she fears this is going to be a very, very long day.


	3. Someone Else's War

"You were that juggler, weren't you? In Highever."

Cullen glares at Anders for what feels like the thousandth time in five minutes. "No."

"The bread-maker's apprentice, then, the one who smelled like fish? Where was that? I think I was drunk."

"No."

"But I know you from somewhere," Anders insists, eyes narrowed as he peers at Cullen suspiciously. "Caroll. Connor. Carpagian." Anders scrunches up his face in thought.

"His name is Cullen," Stephen says.

"Cullen, that was it!" Anders crows as triumphantly as he'd thought of it himself. "Of course! Cullen, from the To…" He stops in horror, does an abrupt about-face, and begins stalking back the way they'd came. "Right, almost got me there. Nice try, but _no_."

Therrin and Mhairi stop, turning back, and Cullen's gratified to see they both look almost as irritated as he feels. "What _now?_" Therrin demands.

"I'm not going anywhere with a templar," Anders calls over his shoulder, "and if I'd known they were sending mages to hunt mages?" He laughs unpleasantly.

"You think we're here for you?" Therrin looks angry _and_ incredulous, which something tells Cullen is a generally bad combination, but which doesn't seem to concern Anders at all. "With Vigil's Keep overrun by darkspawn and half the place on fire you think I'm worried at all about _you?_"

Anders turns, annoyed. "Well, yes."

Mhairi's glance at Cullen is curious. "You're a templar?"

"Was," Cullen offers shortly, shifting uncomfortably in his splintmail. "I was."

"Right," Anders says again, a snide, brittle edge to his voice. "What happened? Got bored of wearing the uniform? Developed a sudden allergy to stairs?"

"He's with me," Therrin tells him, expression forbidding. 

Anders snorts, ready to retort, and then stops, looking from her to Cullen and back again, wary. "With you?" He makes a face but starts walking back over, cautious and watching Cullen intently. "How did that happen?"

"Long story," Therrin says. "Can we get on with this or do we need to lock you up somewhere?"

"Always with the locking up," Anders complains, though he seems to mull it over. "Fine. No funny business," he warns at last, pointing a finger at Cullen. "Unlike some of us, I'm not stupid enough to turn my back on you."

But Cullen doesn't want Anders at his back, either, and so the two of them end up walking shoulder-to-shoulder, darting suspicious looks at one another as they follow Therrin down the dark hallway.

-oOo-

The air rolling through the corridors is polluted with streams of oily smoke, burning in Therrin's lungs and making her eyes sting as she leads the way through the fortress. She keeps a hand to the wall when it gets hard to see, trying with little success to remember the layout of Vigil's Keep, which way they'd come, what directions to turn if they have to make a run for it. At her hip Stephen coughs, clinging close and eyes squinted tightly shut.

If there's any mercy in this at all it's that his eyes are so irritated that he can hardly see the hanging bodies of darkspawn victims. She steers them as far away from the bodies on the floor as much as she's able, and hopes it's enough.

The Wardens have to be around here somewhere. She hears the noises of battle, the guttural snarls of darkspawn, the jarring metallic clang of some heavy weapon connecting with armor, and it's the closest thing they've had to a good sign all this time. "Up ahead," she says shortly. "Not much farther."

They push through the door at the end of the hall, breathing deeply at the relative clearness of the air for a half-second before they catch sight of the darkspawn, circling someone, weapons out and… _Oghren? _Therrin's mind crashes to a halt, in disbelief.

Surely this has to be some trick, first stumbling across Anders and now Oghren. Oghren turns, ignoring the darkspawn surrounding him, and gives Therrin a cheery wave.

_That's it_, she thinks, dazed, _I've lost my mind_. Cullen stops at her shoulder, looking confused. "Tell me I'm not the only one who sees Oghren up there," she says, almost under her breath.

He gives her an odd look. "No. I see him."

Therrin readies her staff. "Good."

Between the sweep of Oghren's axe and a massive blizzard spell it isn't long before the room is clear. His hearty roar of a laugh as the darkspawn shatter is the same as it's always been, tugging at some worried knot of feeling she'd kept pushed aside. The spell-wind still howls and seethes, snow blowing into tiny drifts in the corners and caking in Oghren's beard, and he waits until it subsides to jog down the ramp. "I thought that was you. Ha!"

"Oghren?" Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, tight and strained. "How did…?"

He snickers. "Something's gonna fly in your mouth if you don't get it shut sometime."

Therrin snaps her mouth closed, thoughts spinning. "Why are you here?"

Oghren leans against a pillar, grinning crookedly. "Figured I'd join up. Didn't realize how much I missed killing for a living, and you're a better boss than King Fussybritches. 'Oghren, you're a general, quit scaring the recruits, Oghren, this is an official function, you can't spit in that.' _Pah_."

Behind her, Anders laughs. "Wow. They let you carry a weapon? Around _people?_"

Oghren snorts, grin widening as he sizes up Anders. "A staff, earrings, and a skirt. Who's this, your ugly sister?"

"Oh. A dwarf _comedian_."

"Right." Oghren hoists his axe easily. "We gonna stand around and blather all day? There's darkspawn to separate from their heads, and I'm just getting warmed up."

"I'm…" Therrin trails off, still off-balance. _Where were you_ and _what happened_ slide through her brain, but… _Later_, she thinks forcibly. It doesn't matter now. All that matters is the darkspawn, and killing them, and everything else can damned well wait until later.

With Oghren beside her, it all feels easier. She knows how to fight with him, where to stand, when to cast. The Blight had been hard training, but valuable, and the darkspawn fall before them now more quickly than before. The air is clearer up here, barely smoky at all, and from the other side of the wall Therrin can hear a muted thudding, the sounds of iron on stone.

_Please be the Wardens._

The body on the floor isn't moving and so Therrin rushes past it, but Mhairi gasps, stricken and falling to her knees. "Rowland!"

"Mhairi?"

His face is a rictus of pain, eyes fever-bright and glassy, and Therrin's heart sinks at the sight of him. Anders murmurs something about poison, a spell fading from his hands, dying; she hardly hears him. "There's… the seneschal. They took him, the darkspawn." He licks his lips, smearing blood across his mouth and taking pained, shallow breaths. "It… it _talks_. Commander. You have to…"

But she doesn't find out what he wants her to do. His breath hitches sharply and he slumps, going limp and sagging into Mhairi's arms.

Mhairi shakes her head in silent disbelief, pushing the dead man away gently. "Oh, Rowland. We came to Vigil's Keep together, Commander, we…" She shakes her head again and doesn't finish, gently thumbing his eyes closed.

Therrin glances at the door as the sound picks up again, metallic and muffled. "I'm sorry, Mhairi. We'll come back for him." She doesn't say_ leave him here, there isn't time to worry over the dead, not yet_.

But Mhairi is soldier enough to understand. She stands, straightening, a hard set to her jaw. "Of course, Commander."

Therrin glances down at the curling of hands in her robe, down low. At her hip Stephen is big-eyed and frightened, staring at the dead man. "Come on," she says as gently as she can, nudging him along. "Stephen. Come on."

He nods, distracted, but gives no sign of moving until Dog pushes his nose into Stephen's ear and snuffles.

_I should have left you at the Tower_, she thinks for the thousandth time, forcing back a helpless frustration. There's nowhere safe enough to leave him, not and be sure the darkspawn won't find him, but there's nothing to be done about it now.

The cold of the rain is a shock, the wind buffeting the keep in whistling gusts that race across the battlements, and here again, darkspawn, but Therrin spots a soldier on his knees and—

The darkspawn _is_ talking.

Therrin falters for a half-second, stunned. The darkspawn's voice is like churning gristle and sounds distinctly inhuman, but it is speaking and nothing she'd seen since the day of her Joining had prepared her for this. When he gets closer, his speech seems to even as though his already-distorted words had been caught on the wind and stolen away, but she hears _capture the Grey Warden, these others, they may be killed _very, very clearly.

This is almost becoming familiar, the tipping feeling as they plunge headlong into battle, steel and spells working in something like concert. The darkspawn begins weaving together a sucking pull of magic and from the corner of her eye she can see Anders flinch as Cullen strikes out and strips it of mana. Oghren steps in, axe-blade angling up and sinking deep into the space beneath the creature's ribs. When it staggers, Dog leaps on it, jaws open and following it down as it falls to the stone.

There's a crunch and the darkspawn jerks on its back, and then it doesn't move again.

"Commander." The grey-haired soldier rises slowly, gauntleted hand braced on his knee.

He doesn't _sound_ Orlesian, Therrin thinks dimly, blinking rain out of her eyes. They still sting from earlier, and the rain trickling down through her dirty hair doesn't help. "Are you a Grey Warden?"

"No, ser. I'm the senes—" He stops mid-word at Cullen's gesture, a silent point out to the road. "Soldiers." The lines around his eyes deepen as he squints, frowning in reserve. "But whose?"

Therrin would know that figure anywhere, even now, far away and muted through the haze of rain. "Alistair," she answers, ignoring the soldier's start of surprise. "It's King Alistair."

He ever did have perfect timing, didn't he?

-oOo-

Rain is definitely the worst part of being on the run, Anders is sure of it. It makes his robe heavy and makes it cling in places it oughtn't, and once the shoulder-bits get soaked through the air gets thick with the unmistakable aroma of wet—

He eyes the fuzzy shoulders of his robe skeptically.

Wet _whatever_ it is. Classification be damned, it smells funny.

There hadn't been time to slip away, not with that idiot templar watching, so Anders had simply tried to hang at the back of the pack as they'd headed back down the fortress stairs and outside to… well, something about a king, he isn't sure exactly what. What does one do with a king?

Anders doesn't intend to stick around long enough to find out.

But there's no chance of edging off into the trees because there are no trees, not just along the road, which is probably good for defending the fortress but a piss-poor situation for a mage trying not to be here anymore.

At least he isn't in chains, which is something. Not much of something, but the longer he isn't in chains the bigger his timeframe, the bigger the chance of everyone getting distracted by something shiny so that he can dash off and keep heading to Amaranthine. Granted, it'll have to be something incredibly shiny to get the templar off his back. If looks could kill, Anders would be a crispy little spot of mage-cinders about now.

A challenge. A challenge is good, right? Keeps him on his toes. Think positive.

But it becomes exponentially more difficult to think anything positive at all when they get closer to the king's band of soldiers because there's Rylock, crazy as ever and right there, inescapable. It isn't easy to look inconspicuous when you're a good-looking apostate in snazzy yellow robes; still, Anders tries. Oh yes, me? I belong here. Package deal, came with the furniture.

He does his best to pretend he isn't there at all. It's no shame to hide behind a templar to stay out of sight of another templar, is it? Now if only the idiot would be still. But other than the templar situation, it _is_ a bit interesting. Anders hasn't ever seen a king before and can't help peering over for a look.

The king looks depressingly unremarkable. No crown or anything. But Mhairi gasps and kneels, all aflutter, and somehow manages to make it look easy despite wearing a dwarf's weight in heavy chainmail. Anders wonders for a moment if the templar is going to kneel too, which would be bad because it's easy enough to hide behind someone when you're both vertical, but to hide while kneeling he'd have to practically be cuddling up and that's just not going to happen.

He has standards, after all.

"Are you all right?" the king asks, apparently talking to Therrin. "What happened? We saw smoke from the road and came as quickly as we could."

"Darkspawn," she answers. "The Keep was under attack when we got here. And I haven't seen any of the Orlesian Wardens but we need to find them."

The grey-haired soldier coughs discreetly. "Ser. Your Majesty. I am Varel, the seneschal of Vigil's Keep, and I'm afraid—" He hesitates, looking as though he's weighing his words. "I'm afraid the other Wardens are either dead or missing. There were significant casualties."

Therrin pales. "What?"

"Missing?" the king demands at nearly the same time.  "As in misplaced, or as in taken by the darkspawn?" He darts a glance at Therrin, uncertain. "Darkspawn don't take prisoners, do they?"

"That's what it said, though," Therrin muses, sounding a bit sick. "The darkspawn said to capture the Grey Warden."

"It said… what?"

"It spoke," Therrin says flatly. "I heard it. I know," she says, at his expression. She rubs at her face with a hand; whatever she mumbles next, Anders doesn't hear it. It doesn't much matter, because that's the point where madam-crazy-templar catches sight of him and his already deathtastic day just gets that much worse.

_I hate you_, he thinks at Cullen. _A whole life of standing still as a prison-guard and you had to go and move and expose me._

"Hey, they _do_ make lady-templars," the dwarf leers, and Anders' stomach sinks to somewhere around his knees. Please, go ahead, piss her off even more. It'll make for such a fun trip back to the Tower. Last time had been a nightmare, but eighth escape's the charm, right? The one that sticks? He should've bolted for the Imperium the moment he saw daylight and never looked back.

None of which helps him now; Rylock is furious, screeching, "Your Majesty! Stay back, this mage is a killer!"

Anders tries to duck back behind Cullen but it doesn't work because even he's turning to look. "I'm not," Anders bites out acidly. "A killer. For what it's worth. Been a while, Rylock, you're getting sloppy."

"We're all killers here," Therrin points out, voice careful. "Anders has been helping us kill darkspawn since we got here."

He thinks she's trying to be soothing. It doesn't work, Rylock's focus doesn't waver. "Silly Therrin," Anders chides. "You can't use logic on a templar."

_Diversion, diversion, think of something_. Maybe he could get off a spell fast enough, knock them down? But then it'd be running, alone. They'd track him and find him, and then he'd just be tired when they caught him.

But Rylock's already going on, enumerating Anders' (mostly exaggerated) crimes to the King. Anders manages to keep his mouth shut, busy plotting how to get out again when he hears the word _hang_ and the world seems to stop.

This is it, then. The rain feels colder than before, even though he knows it isn't. Blast it all but if he'd known these would be the last free hours of his life he'd have managed to find a tavern or something. He wouldn't have wasted time killing darkspawn with a priggish templar and Therrin… but Therrin isn't looking at Rylock, she's looking at him, expression troubled.

_Help me_, Anders mouths silently, even though it feels like a futile gesture. Official business or not she seemed friendly enough with the king. Maybe she can ask for leniency, for _something_, because anything is better than hanging and of anyone here a fellow mage might be his only shot.

But the king is looking at Anders, too, warily. He's caught the message then, and doesn't seem to like it one bit.

It doesn't matter. Therrin turns his way, arms crossed and looking thoughtful. "Did you murder those templars?" she asks with deceptive mildness, as though they're discussing the miserable state of the weather or the price of flour in Antiva.

_Like Rylock means to do to me?_ "No," he says, a bit stung. "I'm not a murderer."

Therrin makes a thoughtful noise, biting at her lip. And the templars look horrified, so that's… hopeful? Maybe? _Do something, anything, _he urges mentally.

"Anders helped us take back Vigil's Keep," Therrin begins pensively, looking annoyed for a moment at a gust of wind that whips her wet hair into her face. "He's a valuable fighter."

"And healer," Anders adds quickly. "There are probably wounded around. You need me."

Please, please let this work. Staying on as castle healer wouldn't be too bad, would it? Better than going back to the Tower and definitely better than hanging.

Therrin doesn't seem to be listening, though. She's looking at the seneschal. "How many of the Wardens are confirmed dead?"

Varel considers a moment. "I wasn't keeping count, ser. At least nine, of a dozen. There hasn't been any sign of the others, I'm afraid. If the darkspawn have taken them the odds of recovering them alive are…"

"Slim," she finishes.

Varel doesn't argue.

But the king doesn't look happy at all. "Therrin…"

"Two Wardens," she interrupts quietly. "Two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden." Anders tries not to fidget when she gives him another long, searching look, an odd feeling as though he's being held up by the scruff of his neck to be measured. "There's something strange going on with the darkspawn and I don't know that I'll be able to stop it alone." She gives Anders another look. "Leave him. I'll make him a Warden."

Anders' mind spins, hopeful and horrified at once. A Warden? _Him?_

"Therrin." Apparently Cullen thinks this is a terrible idea, which makes Anders feel marginally better.

When Therrin speaks again every word is very soft, and very clear. "I invoke the Right of Conscription."

It doesn't mean much to Anders but it seems to mean a great deal to everyone else. The king's eyebrows rise and Rylock turns red in an instant. "Absolutely not. This man has been sentenced, his crimes _cannot_ go unpunished!"

The king is watching Anders, eyes narrowed. "Are you sure about this? He's already been declared guilty."

She wraps both hands around her staff. "So had I, when Duncan conscripted me."

"Your Majesty," Rylock protests, eyes blazing.

"I'll allow it," King Alistair interrupts, tone absolutely final. "The Grey Wardens will need to rebuild; the Right of Conscription is necessary."

_A Grey Warden_, Anders thinks, a bit dazed.

Oghren claps him stoutly on the back. "Welcome aboard, kid."

Therrin's face falls. "Oghren…"

"Look," the king interrupts. "Perhaps we could discuss this inside? The Joining can take a while to prepare and I'd like to see it done as soon as possible."

The seneschal looks to Therrin and she nods, and the king dismisses Rylock (and oh, if _that_ isn't just a little satisfying, that look of rage she shoots them all as she walks toward the road), and the lot of them head back inside the smoking fortress.

Anders catches sight of the pale disk of the sun behind the veil of clouds, directly overhead in the sky, and it's all he can do not to laugh.

It is without question the strangest day of his life, and it's only half over.


	4. We Happy Few

Everyone has a job to do in the aftermath of the attack. Clearing the keep comes first, hand-in-hand with taking inventory: of the dead, of the living, of the countless material things salvaged (or not) from the darkspawn. Dog helps sniff out survivors, the king's soldiers help drag out corpses, and because the keep's supply of firewood is depleted from the harsh winter, Therrin and Anders keep the fires going.

There are so many dead. Knights of all ages, in armor battered and new, servants who hadn't made it to hiding, a couple of dogs who had died beside their masters. It all begins to blur together after a while, an endless line of flame and ash.

The Wardens are lined up in death, shoulder-to-shoulder on the wet ground, and Therrin thinks as she burns them that these would have been her brothers, her companions. She'll never know them, now. The thought feels blotted out by the desolate immensity of everything else.

"Here." Anders lets the fire spell fade for a moment, shaking the heat off his hand and reaching into his pocket to pull out a pair of small bottles and hold one out to her. Cullen shifts, uncomfortable, watching Anders with open suspicion, but it's only lyrium potion. Anders tips his head back and takes his in a neat swallow, but Therrin hesitates, thumb tapping at the lip of the bottle as she darts a glance at Cullen. A couple of months ago she'd have thought nothing of it—had thought nothing of it—but now it's different, strange and uneasy. "Come on," Anders says, and nudges her in the arm.

Cullen frowns. But the knights are bringing out darkspawn, piling them in a heap, and they aren't going to burn themselves. Therrin closes her eyes and drinks, and tries not to think about anything else.

The sky's beginning to darken by the time they finish, everyone dragging in to the uncertain safety of the keep's interior and staying close. No one seems keen on the idea of wandering off alone, even Anders, though that might be because every time Therrin catches him glancing over his shoulder Cullen is there, armed and waiting.

So much for getting away from the whole mage-and-templar pattern. They seem to have fallen into old roles with frightening ease.

It just all seems so much. Therrin sits behind the huge desk in the Warden-Commander's office—_her_ office, she reminds herself, but the thought seems too surreal to take hold—and she listens to the treasurer and the captain of the guard as they spell out the situation, problem after problem piling up in impossible heaps until it seems that every inch of Amaranthine is besieged somehow. None of it explains the talking darkspawn, none if it provides any answers at all, and for every question she asks there's a chorus of _I don't know_ and _the Wardens didn't say_.

_Of course they didn't_, she thinks privately, the remains of an old resentment stirring to life as the treasurer and captain leave.

It gets worse when it becomes clear Oghren wasn't kidding about becoming a Grey Warden. "Just give me the big cup," he grunts, a crooked grin splitting his face as he looks at Anders, the lot of them squeezed into her office and making the space feel smaller. "I'll show this squirrely bastard how it's done."

Therrin falters. "You don't have to go through the Joining. I didn't think… you're welcome here, always. But you don't have to be a Grey Warden to stay and fight."

Oghren snorts. "_Have_ to be? What do you think I came for? Think I came all this way to stand around for decoration?"

"Let's hope not," Anders chimes in.

"No…" Therrin corrects, trying to scrabble together the myriad scraps of thought into something useful, weaving around threads of Warden-secrets and trust and wondering vaguely how many Warden traditions she might have broken already. "Oghren, the Joining… it's dangerous. And being a Warden isn't something…"

He laughs from the depths of his belly. "_Dangerous?_ Aww. That's cute. Real cute. You had me going there for a minute."

Therrin doesn't laugh. "It's not a joke. Being a Warden isn't…" Dammit, what to _say?_ Everything she knows about being a Warden she'd been told after the fact. Picking through her memories yields no insight at all in knowing what to tell him, how much to tell him, and with Anders and Cullen right here it helps not at all. "It isn't anything I'd wish on you. At all."

Oghren snorts, disdainful. "So what? So I'm good enough to be a regular grunt but not good enough to be a Warden? Is _that_ what you're saying? Because—"

"No," Therrin retorts, uneasiness giving way to something worse. "Of course it isn't."

"Then why?" Oghren demands. "All I'm hearing is excuses and you haven't given me one sodding reason."

Therrin stares at him a moment, appalled. The icy creep of fear through her gut sharpens at the thought of losing him, of watching him drink and fall and die. _Reasons_, she thinks, _I'll give you reasons, secrecy be damned._

She glances up at Cullen. "Lock the door, please." Anders will either know soon enough anyway or be dead, and Cullen of all people knows how to keep things quiet. If the Orlesian Wardens were open enough that Varel knows how to do the Joining, she can damned well let Oghren know what he's in for. "I don't want you to be a Warden," she says bluntly as soon as Cullen slides the bolt home. "Even if you survive the Joining—and there's no guarantee you will, I was the only one to survive mine—you won't be the same person. Being a Warden will kill you."

Cullen looks faintly horrified, but Oghren (thank the Maker) looks thoughtful. "The darkspawn."

"No. I mean _being a Warden_ will kill you," Therrin clarifies, every word bitten out painfully clear. "The darkspawn carry the Taint. Being a Warden means we take that Taint into ourselves, and it's a death sentence. If it doesn't kill you immediately, it kills you slowly. From the time you Join you have thirty years—_if_ you live that long—before it drives you mad, and you head into the Deep Roads to die."

Oghren scowls.

"That isn't all," Therrin presses on before he can protest. "The Taint becomes a part of you, permanently. You'll hear the darkspawn, you'll sense them, for the rest of your life. And they'll be able to sense you. You'll likely never have children." Something changes in Oghren's expression, going strained and hard, and when Cullen shifts and she glances at him he looks perturbed. A split-second later he's rigid and blank, looking more like a statue than anything else.

Therrin knows better. Still, if she can just do one thing at a time, deal with _one thing_ before more problems come knocking. "There are dreams, too. Nightmares. And that's on top of feeling like you're being devoured from the inside out by hunger. It'll feel sometimes like it's eating you alive." Therrin stops, aware that her hands are aching and only belatedly realizing that they're clenched too tightly. "I guess in some ways, it is. Oghren, don't do this. I'd never wish this on anyone I care for."

"Oh, _thanks_," Anders retorts, looking stung and more than a bit ashen.

"I'm giving you a chance," Therrin tells him. "It's all anyone gets. Don't you… what about Felsi?" she asks, turning back to Oghren. "I thought you two were happy together."

His expression darkens in an instant. "I'm not the sort of father-material Felsi had in mind for the sproglet, when it gets here. She's gone."

Therrin's remaining arguments wither away unspoken.

Oghren doesn't meet her eyes, and when he speaks again his voice is rough and quiet. "I didn't come here to be the sodding tagalong. I came here because you're the only person in the whole sodding world I knew wouldn't turn me out. I came here so I could be a Warden, so I could be part of something again. I have no caste, and no house, and no family." He stops, jaw tightening. "Don't go shutting me out of the Wardens for some half-brained notion of protecting me. I got nothing to lose."

The silence of the office feels oppressive, then, fractured in dark lines between them. Some cold facet of her brain is already weighing the situation at hand, trying to add up who might live, who might die, how far they can go on the resources available. Oghren is one of the best fighters she's ever known, and of everyone here, he's the only one she knows beyond all doubt that she can trust.

He glances up at her, expression less vehement than before. "C'mon, Commander. You can't let this poncy little sod be a Warden and turn me out. What's he gonna do, sparkle them to death?"

Therrin smiles faintly, despite herself. "No. I don't…" She takes a deep breath, hoping in vain for something like insight, some discernment that might come along with being the Warden-Commander. Nothing is forthcoming. "If you're set on doing this, I won't stop you," she says at last, forcing back a sharp surge of grief. _He isn't dead yet_. "But you don't have to join the Wardens. I would never turn you out. As long as I'm here, you're welcome to stay, no Joining, no strings."

Oghren grimaces. "It ever occur to you that I might _want_ the strings?" He looks down at the floor, kicking lightly at something she can't see. "Bah. We've blathered enough. I'm sure there's something to drink around here somewhere. C'mon, cupcake," he orders, jerking his head at Anders. "I've had that dog piss they try to pass off for ale in your tower. It's weak enough to make a grown man cry. You should at least get a taste of decent liquor before you die tonight."

"Funny," Anders bites back. "Very funny." But as he follows Oghren out she can't help but note that the both of them seem less than steady and Anders in particular looks ready to bolt. He doesn't get the chance. Cullen follows them into the hallway, looking tense, and when the door closes behind them Therrin sits behind the enormous desk and buries her head in her hands, alone and utterly overwhelmed.

-oOo-

With the king and his soldiers alerted to keep watch on Anders, Cullen heads back down the hallway, steps just barely measured and mind roiling. He stops in front of Therrin's door, considers knocking and then rejects the idea just as quickly, and pushes the door open.

Therrin hasn't moved. Behind the desk she looks disconsolate and jarringly small. Dying slowly, he can't help but think, horrified at the memory of her words. She glances up at him, miserable, and Cullen makes sure the door's firmly shut behind him, trying to figure out where to start.

"Thirty years," he blurts, which isn't really where he'd thought to begin. "You knew all of this, all this time, and you never thought to tell me?" A flicker of uncertainty rears its head in his mind, too late to make a difference. _Had_ she told him? He hopes he would have remembered something like this.

Therrin doesn't answer immediately. "I wasn't supposed to tell you in the first place—"

"But you could tell Oghren? And Anders?" The back of his neck feels hot.

Therrin's hands drop to the desktop, and she frowns, puzzled. "What was I supposed to tell you? Oh, by the way…"

"You were supposed to be honest with me," he interrupts. "Did you ever intend to tell me any of it or did you plan to… to disappear, one day and leave for—"

"That's years from now," Therrin cuts in, frowning and looking rattled. "I could die tomorrow. I could've died about fifty different ways this morning. There's no guarantee I'm going to make it that long at all." She laughs shortly, with no humor to the sound. "If I make it past next _week_ it'll feel like a miracle."

"It isn't funny," he argues, crossing his arms and standing directly in front of the desk.

"I didn't say it was." But before he can protest she brings her hands to her face, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. "Look, it's… would you sit down? You're looming."

Cullen drags over a chair and sits, stiffly.

Therrin picks at the edge of a piece of vellum, straightening a curl at the corner only to have it spring back up under her fingers. "It's not something I intended to keep from you." She frowns, dissatisfied. "If it was you, would you want to think about it all the time?"

Cullen doesn't have an answer for that.

Therrin flicks the corner of the vellum with her fingernail, idly. "When I came back to the Tower, I wanted nothing more than to put being a Grey Warden behind me. Forever." She glances up. "It didn't happen that way. But for a while… there, with you. I was happy." She leans on her desk, looking very weary. "I probably should have told you sooner. You know Alistair didn't tell me until more than a month after I Joined?"

"No." Cullen shifts in the chair, the buzzing of dismay beginning to fade. "You never said."

"No, I didn't," she says by way of agreement. "But now you know."

She doesn't say anything more, and doesn't look at him. More questions spring to mind and he doesn't know if asking will make it worse, but the disquiet already gnawing at him won't be ignored. "This… Taint."

Therrin glances up, eyebrows raised. "What do you want to know?"

Cullen tries to choose his words with care but doesn't know how to ask it diplomatically. "You said… the darkspawn. They carry the Taint, and now… you do?" Therrin nods. Cullen licks his lips, dreading the answer but unable to stop himself asking. "What does that do, exactly? They're… monsters—" And he doesn't want to say it because it sounds awful, even in his own head, but he finishes, "What does that make you?"

Therrin straightens, looking faintly stung. "It makes me a Grey Warden." He tries not to wince—it had come out just as badly as he'd feared—but after a moment she leans back in the chair, considering him. "You know me. This, what I am," she says, gesturing at herself. "This is me. I'm not a monster. I'm not a darkspawn. I'm not any different than I was yesterday, or last winter, or the day I came back to the Tower in the first place." She crosses her arms, fingers curling in the furred edge of her sleeve. "The Taint is a poison. Being a Grey Warden just means that it takes longer to kill you."

Cullen nods, thinking. "How long before you're incapacitated, then?" At her blank look, he reminds her, "You said if it doesn't kill you quickly, it kills you slowly. You haven't even looked sick, though, I didn't know—"

"Oh no. No, it's not like that." She relaxes a little, leaning into the chair. "I'm fine, for the moment. I think most Wardens are until the end. I just can't expect to be around to grow old, is all."

Cullen considers this, working through it all piece by piece, trying to shuffle through the knowledge and reconcile each new thought with the existing information already in his head. Thirty years…

The one fragment of it all that twists the hardest is the one that seems most bitterly unlikely, hooked and catching in some hollow place beneath his heart. It's stupid to think of children now with so much that seems near-insurmountable between them. Still, a muted sort of loss thrums low through his mind. It had been a closely-guarded daydream for so long, foolish and naïve as it was, but it had been impossible, then, and the impossibility lent him the illusion of safety. In the privacy of his own mind, he could want.

The safety was an illusion, of course. The demon had dragged the fragile little thought unwilling out of his mind and into the light, turned it against him as it withered and mocked him with his own delusions.

But it had never gone _away_.

You're being an idiot, he tells himself. They had hardly so much as touched since Lothering. By the time the two of them make enough progress to get around to the act necessary to create a child the thirty years will be up and it'll be a moot point for everyone. Still, the thought is stubborn, holding on like a clinging vine and impossible to shake off. "You said… what about Alistair? You said Grey Wardens couldn't have children, but he…" Cullen swallows, trying to check the indignant thread of hope in his chest. "He's going to be a father."

"I said it wasn't likely," Therrin answers quietly. "Not that it couldn't ever happen. He told me it would be hard for one Grey Warden to have a child, but for two Wardens together it would be impossible." There's melancholy in her expression, just for a moment before she shrugs it away. "Anyway, Alistair's got the Maker's own luck. Not that he'd ever think so."

"Is that why you didn't stay together?" he ventures. He'd never asked why Therrin and Alistair had parted. It had never seemed like his business.

"Part of it." Therrin shrugs. "The kingdom needed an heir. I could never give him one. It didn't matter anyway. A mage can't hold a title, not in Ferelden." She runs a finger along the edge of the vellum again, idly.

Not impossible, then, Cullen thinks, turning it over in his mind and wondering how to ask. But before he can there's a knock at the door, and at Therrin's word Mhairi pokes her head in, eyes alight with curiosity. "Commander."

Therrin's answering smile is a bit thin. "Mhairi. What do you need?"

"I was sent to ask you if you'd decided what to do with that prisoner yet, Commander."

Cullen glances back and forth, puzzled, but apparently Therrin hasn't heard anything about a prisoner either, because her forehead creases in thought and she asks, "Who?"

-oOo-

It had taken Nathaniel two and a half days of scraping the sharp rock against the wall to hone it into a decent edge.

Not that the guard has any idea. Aside from the occasional disgusted glance his direction and the one bucket of water he'd been offered in three days, Nathaniel had been left mostly alone. If he sits here in silence with his hands behind his back there's no way for the guard to know that the bit of stone in his fingers is steadily becoming a weapon, ever-smoother and ever-sharper.

On the third day, he'd begun turning it over and testing it in his fingers, adjusting the grinding angle of the rock and trying to file the corner into a point. It's nearly ready.

But the door opens—it isn't the usual check-in time, so it takes him by surprise at first—and he palms the bit of rock, crossing his arms to conceal the motion and glaring up at the unexpected visitors.

_That_ one he'd know anywhere, too like the descriptions he had painstakingly gathered to be anyone else. His father's murderer is younger than he had expected. His fingers tighten on the blunt edge of the rock.

She says some word to the weary-looking guard, and though he doesn't look happy about it he opens the door to Nathaniel's cell. The mage considers Nathaniel as though he's a curiosity at a fair, arms crossed and head tilted. "I'm told it took four Grey Wardens to bring you in. Do you have a name?"

In answer, Nathaniel turns the rock in his hand, and with no more warning than that, he springs.

The mage doesn't see it coming, doesn't have even a second to react before she's pinned against him, the sharpest edge of the rock digging hard into the side of her neck. Nathaniel feels blood trickle hot over his fingers, hears a flurry of clatters as the motley collection of soldiers scrabble too late for their weapons. "Drop your swords or she dies _now_," he grits out, mouth close to her ear and voice rusty with disuse. "My name is Nathaniel Howe, and I promise you will remember it for the rest of your life."

Without warning the world goes a sickening grey as her spell seizes deep into his bones, dragging at every inch of him and pulling him down hard. He falls unceremoniously into a heap as darkness rushes up to take him, sounds muffled and blurring in his ears as everything goes black.

When he wakes it's to the splitting pain in his forehead, worse than any headache he'd had before in his life. He lies still a moment, stunned, watching the wan flicker of torchlight on the walls. The cell door is locked again (no surprise), and the improvised knife is gone (along with the bucket of water and now, his belt). The mage is sitting on the stone floor, picking through a chest of—

Of his things.

_Wonderful._

Everything he owns in the world he'd been carrying with him. Now she's going through it, peering at his things with an expression of thoughtful curiosity. _Get your hands off it_, he wants to snarl, _do me a favor and die, slowly—_

"Hey, he didn't die." A man—another mage?—is peering down at him, interested. "You're a lucky bastard, friend. I'd have just killed you."

"If you didn't break a _nail_," the dwarf snickers.

"Been thinking of that one all day, have you?"

"Enough." The woman—Amell, he remembers, anger making his gorge rise—doesn't seem concerned. There's no trace of the cut on her neck, now. She turns Nathaniel's favorite dagger over in her hands, examining it closely.

She has no idea how to hold it, he can already tell that much. It seems like an insult to be bested by someone so incompetent, to have his father fall to some spell-slinging sorceress who wouldn't know good steel if she was impaled on it. The dagger is well-worn but wickedly sharp, and she sets it into the pile with his armor and a handful of poison-bottles. "You won't find anything," he insists, disgusted.

She has the audacity to look amused. "You don't know what I'm looking for." She pulls out the leather slip that holds his lockpicking tools and when she opens it and examines them Nathaniel thinks for a moment that she won't have an idea of what they are, but she arches a brow at him. "So you are a thief."

He sneers. "Everyone needs a hobby."

Amell sets the lockpicking tools beside the bottles of poison. "You have interesting hobbies."

Nathaniel grimaces in pain, looking at the others and trying to calculate his odds of getting out. The guard's gone but there's an angry-looking knight, and the other mage doesn't look like much but the dwarf is bristling with heavy armor and carrying a huge axe.

Not much of a chance at all, he thinks, impatient. The door opens and the guard returns with two other men, and Nathaniel's stomach drops abruptly as he recognizes Varel. The seneschal recognizes him at about the same time, expression going hard. "_Nathaniel Howe_. Commander, I didn't know he was here."

She peers into the chest, looking satisfied that she's emptied it thoroughly. "You know him well?"

Varel snorts. "Enough that I should've counted on him turning up, sooner or later. You weren't hurt?"

"No." She seems unimpressed by how easily Nathaniel could've killed her. His hands are still sticky with her drying blood. She turns to him, curious. "What are you here for? Anything other than trying to kill me?"

The headache hasn't abated a bit. The throbbing of his forehead intensifies momentarily and makes him wonder if his skin might actually split. "I…" He doesn't want to admit anything, not here and not to her. "I came for my family's things," he manages, disdain wavering in his voice. "I imagine you think they belong to you, now."

"They do belong to you," Varel offers steadily, ignoring Nathaniel's look of rancor. "The entire estate does. He has no legitimate claim."

Amell still looks pensive. "What things?"

Nathaniel grimaces, resting his head back on the stone wall. "Personal effects. Nothing that would interest a great hero like yourself."

She doesn't seem to notice the contempt in his voice. "That doesn't seem unreasonable."

Varel's eyebrows draw together in an expression of bemusement. "Commander?"

Amell narrows her eyes as she considers Nathaniel. "What are you going to do, if I let you go?"

There's an immediate protest from a few of the others but Nathaniel barely registers it, confusion and suspicion coiling closely together in his gut. "Do?" He laughs, a bitter sound that burns his throat. "I'll probably come back. I won't be unlucky enough to get caught, next time."

"Wow. You're an _idiot_," the other mage tells Nathaniel, impressed. "And you're an idiot if you let him go. You did see him get the jump on you, yes? He's faster than sin."

She glances up at Varel. "What sort of sentence is he looking at?"

"For theft?" Varel crosses his arms. "It's at your discretion, of course. For theft, the usual punishment would be a flogging. For assaulting the Commander of the Grey? Hanging."

A thick wave of hatred passes over Nathaniel, oppressively heavy. It figures, it just bloody figures that the last of the Howes would die here, at her word, the murdering _viper_. But she isn't calling for his hanging. Instead, she looks at him with the same calculating curiosity she'd given his possessions. "You're not just a thief, are you?"

"If you're going to kill me, spare me the small talk," Nathaniel bites out, jaw tight. He should've killed her when he had the chance, should've done it without hesitation.

Amell inclines her head. "I'd rather not. I have a better idea." Nathaniel's stomach drops at the prospect of a fate worse than hanging, but she only starts putting his belongings back in the chest. "I'm not exactly in a position where I have the luxury of wasting resources," she says, and eyes him again, a considering look that makes his insides squirm with uneasiness. "Even unlikely resources."

Nathaniel doesn't like the sound of that at all.

"I'm offering you a place among the Grey Wardens," she says finally, as matter-of-factly as though she were offering him a piece of cake, ignoring when his mouth falls open.

"Commander." Varel looks gravely concerned.

"You really think I'd serve under you?" Nathaniel demands, incredulous.

"If you join the Wardens, I'll consider the theft situation resolved."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you can hang." She pushes to her feet at last, dusting off her hands. "It's up to you."

Nathaniel sneers. This has to be a trick, a trap, and he isn't going to fall for it. "And what's to stop me from killing you _after_ I join the Wardens, hmm?"

The other mage laughs. "I can't believe you got captured. Really. What'd you do, walk up to the nearest guard, say 'hi, I'm here to murder the commander, can you point the way?'"

"You won't," Amell says, an edge to her voice that wasn't there before. "Because if I have cause to think you're making an attempt, I'll run you through myself."

Nathaniel narrows his eyes, trying wildly to think, to get out of this, but with the headache hammering at the backs of his eyes and hunger sharpening its teeth on his belly his head feels muddled, the right course of action elusive, slippery and darting away from his hands. If only he had found her days ago, if he could just… just _think_.

"You'll run him through?" Anders repeats, disbelieving. "With what, your staff?"

Amell only looks irritated. "It's a metaphor."

"It's a _terrible_ metaphor."

"Why would you offer me this?" Nathaniel interrupts warily. "I don't understand." He wouldn't have offered her anything like mercy if he'd been the one to catch her unawares. He keeps expecting the hint of a snare, of a lure he won't be able to escape, and seeing nothing only pushes his wariness higher.

Her expression doesn't give anything away. "You seem to have a rather particular set of skills. I can use them."

The door opens, the already crowded room getting even that much worse. "Commander," a woman says. "It's time for the Joining—"

"We'll be right there." Amell turns back to Nathaniel. "Yes or no?"

Nathaniel scowls. "That's it?"

"Yes."

He lets out a breath, mind scrambling and coming up short. "That isn't much of a choice."

"No," she agrees flatly. "It isn't. Right now, yes or no."

_What would Father have done?_ Nathaniel reaches for answers but only one thing seems clear: he can't carry out any sort of vengeance once he's hanged. Better to live, isn't it? To live, and fight another day? Once they let him out he'll have all the opportunity in the world… "Yes," he says at last. "I'll do it."

"Good." The Commander rises and turns to go.

"You do remember he just tried to kill you," Anders says, voice sardonic.

"He can join the club." She doesn't turn around. "Bring him."

Without another word she pushes out the door and disappears, and as the guard advances with manacles in hand, Nathaniel edges against the wall and tries not to let on that it still feels as though he's being dragged toward his own execution.


	5. In the Shadows Where We Stand

Therrin hadn't expected to lose Mhairi. She had known it was possible, of course. Still, ever since she'd begun to think about being the Warden-Commander, about rebuilding the order in Ferelden, Mhairi had been a part of those thoughts.

She'd really thought that if anyone wouldn't survive, it would be Anders.

In the makeshift waiting-room Therrin tries not to doze off, waiting for Nathaniel and Anders to wake up. It has been, almost surely, the longest day of her life. Oghren had meandered off almost immediately, and the relief at his survival was nearly immeasurable, even if she can hardly believe that he just belched it off and kept going. (And later asked an incredulous Varel _hey, you got any more of that?_ Alistair had choked. _Can you Join twice, do you think? Surely not._)

"You're supposed to be awake when they wake up," Alistair chides lightly.

Therrin raises her head. "I'm awake. For now. It didn't take me this long to come around, did it?"

He laughs quietly, face shadowed in the wavering candlelight. "No, not quite. But you were getting rained on. It might've helped."

"It's still raining, I think. We could drag them out into it," she suggests, and smiles when Alistair does. He seems more comfortable than he had been in ages. Since the Blight, almost.

He's around Wardens again, she realizes dimly, thoughts burbling slowly through the fog of sleep pressing at the edges of her brain. Alistair hadn't been around Wardens since Ostagar; now with five of them in a room he seems content. The thought brings with it a pang of guilt, restive and uneasy. If she hadn't made him king he could be here among them and everything would be different.

It isn't worth dwelling on.

"Nice speech, by the way," she says, stretching in her chair. "I'm glad you did it. I don't think I have the whole thing memorized, yet." Which isn't entirely true—she could have wrestled it from the depths of her memory if she'd had to—but something about Alistair saying the words had been strangely comforting.

Alistair gives a tired smile. "Liked that, did you? You should've seen me right after my Joining. I was so impressed with all the Wardens, all the ritual of it, everything, that I practiced the Joining speech in a mirror for weeks, just in case I ever got asked to say it."

Therrin can picture it all too clearly: Alistair, as bright and earnest as he'd been the day she met him, striving for solemnity in front of a mirror. "How many times have you done it?"

He grins. "This makes twice."

Therrin's chuckle fades as Anders groans and sits up holding his head in both hands as though he's afraid it might crack open. She sits straighter. "How are you?"

Anders gives a humorless laugh. "My head is pounding and I have the distinct taste of darkspawn arse on the back of my tongue. I don't suppose you have anything to drink that isn't the blood of revolting monsters?"

A servant had left a pitcher of ale along with enough food to feed a small army. Therrin pours him a cup and hands it over. Anders makes a face after the first sip but drains the cup, glancing around at the other beds when he finishes. "Just me and Ser Sunshine, is it?"

"Oghren's already headed off for the night," Therrin tells him, weariness pressing in hard. "Mhairi didn't make it."

Anders makes a wordless noise of understanding, handing back the cup and taking in the mostly-empty room with a wince. He puts a hand to his forehead, rubbing a small circle at his temple and looking pained. "Is it supposed to feel this way?"

"I think so. The Joining can be…" Therrin trails off, grasping for the right word. Frightening. Overwhelming.

Anders' eyes are dark and ironic. "Harrowing."

Therrin hesitates. "Yes."

Anders frowns, looking around the room. "Where's the templar?"

"He isn't a Grey Warden," Alistair answers, sounding sleepy. "The Joining is a private ritual. Well. Supposed to be private." Varel's knowledge of it had been rather a surprise.

"He isn't?" Anders echoes, contemplative. "Probably out stalking the halls, then, muttering about abominations and scheming new ways to ship us back to the Tower. You know, if you're going to keep dangerous pets, you're supposed to keep them on leashes or something."

"We can't be sent back to the Tower," Therrin cuts in, ignoring the rest. The day has been mercilessly long and she doesn't have the energy. Surely at some point Anders must run out of pique, _surely_. "The Chantry doesn't have any authority over Grey Wardens."

Anders' head snaps up. "No?"

"No." And perhaps this was the wrong time to bring this up—Alistair still looks disapproving, and she hadn't missed the implication that he didn't entirely trust her to go through with his Joining in the first place—but what's done is done, and she's rapidly becoming too tired to care. "Besides, the king allowed your conscription. Can we…" Her words get drowned in a jaw-cracking yawn she hides behind her hand. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Alistair gives a muted laugh. "I think it _is_ tomorrow."

Therrin rubs her eyes again, sorting it all out. Oghren is alive, and Anders is alive, and even Nathaniel—though he shows no sign of waking up so that she can give him the _welcome to the Wardens, that sound in your head is darkspawn and aren't you a lucky bastard that this isn't a Blight so you're not dreaming of the Archdemon _speech_—_even he's survived, for better or worse. "All right." She levers herself out of the chair, utterly weary. "I'm half-asleep as it is. How long are you staying?"

Alistair stretches out on his chair. "Leaving first thing in the morning, I think."

Therrin nods, sparing a last glance for Nathaniel's sleeping form. "I think this one's out for the night." It's a simple enough matter to find a guard and give him instructions—_if he wakes, see him to a room, and if there's a problem, let me know_—before she makes for the hallways, not entirely sure where she's supposed to be.

She has no idea whatsoever where Cullen's gone. When she finds Stephen and Dog curled up together on a bed she joins them, Dog's stumpy tail thumping quietly on the blankets as she nestles up close and gives over to sleep.

-oOo-

The Wardens are entirely too trustworthy.

It had been child's play to fake sleep for as long as they'd been talking, and then to count out half an hour in his head once they'd gone to give plenty of time for the halls to clear. Vigil's Keep had been his home—he could navigate it in his sleep, he knows every alcove and shadow and every door that creaks—and the few guards that remain are dead on their feet. They take no notice of him as he slips past, hugging the wall, soundless steps carrying him outside as quickly as he dares go.

The road is too public, patrolled by more than Vigil's men, so he cuts off into the forest instead, calling on memory to guide his steps. The forest around Vigil's Keep is treacherous at the best of times, craggy and thick with dense brush and trees thick enough in places to blot out the sun. For anyone else, it would be no place to be caught alone.

Nathaniel knows this forest, or he thought he did, when he'd left the keep behind and set off through the trees. The footing is damp and slippery and every step brings the loamy smell of the soil to his nose, the scents of things long decayed and wet grass and crushed pine needles. With drizzle coming down in a dense grey curtain the air seems opaque, and before long he realizes he doesn't remember as much as he thought he did. Without a light or a trail the night is directionless and he cannot think for the murmuring in his head.

The sound is foreign and invasive, chattering at the front of his skull and buzzing behind his ears, thrumming through his blood in time with his heart, and it only gets worse when he tries to outrun it.  He'd thought to go to Amaranthine, to blend into the shadows and regroup, get armor and weapons and try again, but he's turned around and can't remember what heading to take. Too long in the Free Marches, he thinks. Too long among streets and stone. He's lost his feel for the woods and doesn't know where to go.

One thing is clear: he isn't about to stick around and be dragged back to Vigil's Keep to dance attendance on the whim of a Warden usurper. Once he collects his thoughts he takes his best guess and heads off, trying to be quiet and wincing at the snaps of twigs beneath his boots, the crunch of his feet on the ground as he picks up speed, trying to put distance between himself and the Keep.

It feels good to move after days of imprisonment, to weave between the trunks of trees, to feel the spatter of water against his face. This rise feels familiar, vaguely, there should be a path just up this way. But as he crests the rise it proves not to be the hill he remembered. The ground drops out from beneath him and with no time to react Nathaniel tumbles, scrambling in vain for something to hold onto as his back hits the embankment and he slides. The rock is jagged and steep beneath him and he can't help but cry out as something tears through the back of his thigh. He can't stop and can't slow himself, and before he can try to roll across instead of down the embankment ends and deposits him on his hands and knees in the creek with a splash.

Nathaniel stays still for a long moment, dazed and dimly aware of the cold water sluicing over his arms but not caring. He rocks back to get to his feet and the creek-water hits the wound on his leg, making it hurt more fiercely than before. When he tries to feel out the shape of it the gouge is longer than his hand, painful but not mortally deep, blood dark on his fingers when he pulls them away.

There's no sound but the trickling of the creek, no sign of another living creature. Nathaniel collects himself and lurches upright, pushing damp hair off his cheek. If he follows the creek it'll take him to the road, and from the road to Amaranthine, and from there… one thing at a time.

He staggers along the creek-side, going slowly for the increasing pain in his leg. The drizzle fades, then returns, then gives way to rain, and with the roughness of the terrain and the worsening of his limp progress feels excruciatingly slow. The sky's beginning to lighten overhead by the time he stops, utterly drained, and takes shelter beneath a low-hanging branch, hoping fervently that things look better after a few hours' rest.

They don't.

Instead he wakes up to nightmares, horrific dreams of darkspawn coming for him in a vicious horde. When he shakes off the dreams all that's left is the restless growling of his stomach, an uncontrollable shiver through his limbs and the slicing pain of his leg. He blinks over and over, trying to clear the haze—rocks shouldn't have flaring auras of light, the pine bough above him shouldn't be blurred and pitching, not like that—but it isn't any use. His head aches with fever, his thoughts feel slurred and gurgling, foreign in his own mind. _Get up_, he thinks. _Get up, get moving, get out of here._

The going is slow. He pulls a branch from a deadfall and leans on it heavily, following the creek as it winds and dips along the terrain. The creek will take him to the road, he tells himself, the road will take him to Amaranthine. Maker help him, it shouldn't be this _slow_.

By afternoon he's exhausted and stops, slumping down at the side of the creek and tipping his head back, letting the rain pour down over him. The cool water runs in rivulets over his skin, soothing, beating back at the feverish feeling in his veins. He'd survived far worse than this, surely if he can just… just take a rest and then…

Something's coming, he realizes. Someone. He hears footsteps crunching through the underbrush, and panting, like a hungry wolf. But it's a mabari that emerges from the bushes, seal-slick with rain. It stops inches from his face and gives a short, sharp bark.

"Yes, all right, I'm coming." A cloaked figure emerges from the trees, leaning on a staff. The Warden-Commander.

A meager surge of venom twists in his gut and he wonders wildly if she came to finish him off, to end his family line entirely. She could do it now, with him weak from hunger and whatever this is in his mind, blazing like fever and making the world shift and blur. It seems like something out of a dream when she stops before him, crouching, the rain dripping from the grey hood of her cloak. "Nathaniel."

It feels intrusively familiar to be addressed by his first name. When he'd said she'd remember it for the rest of her life he had only intended that to be long enough to get free of the others and kill her. _Damn_ his miserable luck. It feels like nothing's gone right since before the war.

"I don't imagine you just happened to be out for a walk," Nathaniel manages, and it comes out less disdainful than he'd intended.

"No more than you are." She considers him a moment and the blurring aura fades a bit. "Here."

He takes the offered water-skin reluctantly. Poisoned, probably. It isn't a bad plan, he has to admit: follow him, find him in the woods, offer him a poisoned drink with no one in Amaranthine the wiser. Nathaniel hears the snap and rustle of other people, the sounds of armor as three soldiers emerge from the trees. Backup. In case the Commander couldn't finish him off, probably, or didn't feel like getting her hands dirty.

"And here." She holds out a parcel, wrapped. When he takes it and opens it he finds jerky and cheese and dense, hard bread. "If I'd known you hadn't been fed in days I would've seen to it you were given something to eat before the Joining."

"Why do _you_ care?" But even as he says it, his stomach cramps, the scent of food making his hunger lurch and sharpen.

"There aren't so many Wardens in Ferelden that I can afford to lose one." She frowns at the sight of his blood-soaked trousers. "You're hurt."

Nathaniel gives a bitter laugh. "The sky is blue. Grass is green. Are we going to sit around stating the obvious all day or are you going to hang me and be done with it?"

She gives him an odd look, as though he isn't very bright. "Why would I bother to feed you if I was going to hang you?"

Nathaniel swallows, his throat raw. "Don't most prisoners get a last meal?"

The Commander makes a skeptical face. "It sounds like a waste of time. And food." She nudges the parcel closer to him, like he's a wild animal that has to be coaxed out of a cave. "Eat, so we can get back to the keep. It's going to start getting dark soon."

Nathaniel bites back on his confusion, pushing the bread in his mouth instead. This doesn't make any sense at all. The punishment for desertion is hanging, just as much as for attempted murder, but she doesn't even seem angry. As he eats she examines a nearby fern, peering at the underside of the fronds and glancing back at him on occasion with only a little impatience. The mabari sits and watches him, panting wetly and licking his jowls. "You ate already," the Commander says, apparently talking to the dog.

The mabari whines.

"When we get back."

The mabari makes a grumbling sound and flops onto his belly, still tracking Nathaniel's food with hopeful eyes.

Nathaniel finishes his meal in silence, more puzzled than he cares to admit even to himself, and then the buzzing in his head intensifies with a throb and a pull too strong to ignore. The Commander's head jerks around, attention drawn the same direction as his, but after a moment she seems to relax. Her glance back at him is expectant. "Are you ready?"

Nathaniel nods, skin still crawling from the feeling of… of… "What _was_ that?"

"Darkspawn." She pushes to her feet, scratching behind the mabari's ears absently. "You're sensing them. And they're sensing us. But they're moving away, for the moment."

Nathaniel's stomach drops. "We're… they're sensing us? How?" The thought makes him want to shudder.

"I'll explain everything back at the keep. Can you walk?"

Something in Nathaniel's mind rebels at the strangeness of it all. He deserted, he tried to steal back his family's possessions, he'd come within an inch of cutting her throat, and she seems no more concerned than if this were an afternoon stroll. "I don't understand," he admits, disconcerted and incredibly uncomfortable. "I ran away…"

"I noticed." When she looks at him again her expression is wry. "Anders is furious you managed to run off before he could. He's a better healer than I am, I'll have him tend you properly at the Vigil, but I can manage… hang on."

There's a cool, seeking feeling that washes over him and settles into the back of his thigh like a shower of snow-flurries, the pain ebbing away in diminishing pulses. When he reaches down to touch it the skin is sealed, a raised line where the wound used to be.

"Walking should be fine," she tells him, "but don't try to run or it might open again."

_Run? From armed guards, a mabari and a mage?_ he thinks privately, half-incredulous.

The Commander raises her eyebrows, impatient and holding out her hand to help him to his feet. "Are you coming?"

As though it was a choice. With no better options in sight, Nathaniel forces back the sense of strangeness and takes her proffered hand, hauling himself to his feet and following the Commander of the Grey back to Vigil's Keep in silence.


	6. It Comes From Beneath

There probably isn't any good way to be reminded he isn't quite back up to form yet, Cullen thinks, but waking up sore is particularly unpleasant. It's one thing to know in a detached sort of way how his shirts are just a bit too roomy and his trousers hang looser than before, as though they were made for another man. It's another thing to feel it aching in muscles he'd forgotten he had. A day of fighting darkspawn had left him tired; another day of carting crates and boxes as the seneschal had taken account of the damage from the attacks hadn't helped.

He eyes the armor set neatly in the corner, wondering if he ought to gear up and guard.

_Guard what? You're not a templar anymore. _

The reminder nags at him like an itch. He doesn't belong here, he isn't needed, he has no place at Vigil's Keep at all. He sighs and lies back down in bed, looking dully at the ceiling. Nothing in all his previous experience had prepared him for the feeling of being useless and in the way.

When he stretches to try and ease the tension in his body and mind, only one particular part of him seems undisturbed by his bad mood, and he glances downward and almost laughs, faintly irritated and absurdly relieved all at once. While he'd been out of his head from withdrawal—and then after, when he'd meandered through his days like a ghost in a dream—his body had seemed to shut down, becoming numb and senseless and going through the motions of being alive. There had been flickers of feeling since then, but never much, never at anything like a convenient time. The instance at the inn had been ruined by Wynne's letter, and later they had been in the middle of fighting darkspawn and if that wasn't bad timing he doesn't know what is.

But now there isn't anyone around, and no one is going to need him for anything, and so with a glance at the closed door he pushes back the blankets and indulges himself. So much else is different than before: his armor and the tasks before him, the company of Wardens and his own body, even, slow to wake up again after the nightmare of withdrawal. But for a moment, just here, it seems normal as ever. If anything it's better because here he has the assurance of privacy, a closed door and no one looking for him and nothing better to do than this.

The door opens and Cullen registers the sound only belatedly when he hears Therrin's noise of surprise. His eyes snap open and Therrin is standing in his doorway, a piece of vellum in one hand and an utterly surprised expression on her face.

Cullen jerks the blankets upward, startled and unreasonably embarrassed, and the door is standing open because she's gaping and hasn't shut it. "I thought you were downstairs," Therrin begins faintly, staring at him and seemingly rooted to the spot.

Cullen feels his face get hot. "No." Every bit of arousal withers away in an instant. "Would you shut the door?" He barely keeps the presence of mind not to shout, but Maker, what is it with mages and never knocking ever?

Therrin spins and leaves, shutting the door loudly behind her, and as soon as she's gone Cullen sinks into the mattress and groans in frustration. Perfect_._ As though everything wasn't awkward enough before. He presses his hands to his face, disappointed for more reasons than he can name, and rolls to his feet to get dressed.

-oOo-

Therrin is convinced her ears are still burning. The maid had said Cullen was downstairs and so she hadn't thought to knock, certainly hadn't expected… that. The mental image of Cullen touching himself does odd things to her stomach, not entirely comfortable.

She's the last one down to the dining room and slips into the chair at the head of the table wordlessly, returning Varel's nod and reaching for food without paying too much attention. Therrin skims over the Wardens briefly, taking an odd sort of inventory. Anders is sprawled out in his chair, taking up the majority of two spaces and eating with gusto. Nathaniel's eyes keep darting to the corners of the room, clearly uncomfortable. Mistress Woolsey seems as though she's ignoring everyone else and Oghren… Oghren is drinking.

Not that this is anything new, precisely, but it does seem very early in the morning for him to be swaying in place. He gives her a too-cheery grin and hoists his mug in toast. "Morning, boss."

"Good morning," she returns automatically.

"I came across something this morning that might be of interest," Varel begins, handing over a stack of envelopes, neatly tied. "Letters, I believe, correspondence of the Wardens."

All thoughts of breakfast disappear in an instant. Therrin pushes aside her plate to take up the stack of envelopes. This is perfect. The other Wardens had left so little behind, and the problems in Amaranthine seemed so massive and myriad. A few clear answers would go a long way toward helping her decide what to do. She unties the bit of twine holding them together, thumbs open an envelope, and skims the first few words before realization kicks in cold. "It's in Orlesian," she announces, a sinking feeling in her chest. _Because yes, of course it is, because they were Orlesian Wardens, and you should have known._

"Ah," Varel says, disappointed. Therrin glances up as Cullen comes through the doorway, looking cagey and ignoring the open space next to her in favor of taking the seat by Nathaniel. Therrin's squirm of embarrassment is short-lived, and set aside as Varel frowns over at the papers. "I was hoping they'd be useful. I take it you don't read Orlesian?"

"No." Therrin can't keep the sourness from her voice. Years and years of sitting in lectures and classes and under mentors in the Circle Tower, a whole lifetime of education and study, and it does no good at all. "I can read three different dialects of Ancient Arcanum," she grimaces. "But no, they didn't teach a word of Orlesian at the Circle, because that might've been useful."

Varel gives her a mild look, leaning away. "There are those who might consider it a victory that someone your age didn't grow up speaking Orlesian in the first place."

"I didn't mean… no. I'm sorry. It's just frustrating to have these and not know what they say."

"Hothouse mages," Anders says darkly, not looking up from his plate. "They don't want you to know anything useful. They don't want you to be able to get by in the world. If you can't survive outside the Tower you're pathetically easy to catch." His mouth twists into an unpleasant line, and he glares up briefly at Cullen as though Cullen's personally responsible.

Nathaniel shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable. "I'll do it."

The room goes silent.

It takes a moment for it to sink in that he's talking about the letters. Varel glances at Therrin and raises his eyebrows in question. "You read Orlesian?" Therrin asks carefully, fingers curling around the edge of one envelope.

Nathaniel seems even more uneasy with everyone watching him. "Not well. But I learned a little. Enough to get by," he says, an edge of defensiveness to his voice.

Therrin considers him a moment, mind racing. On one hand, the letters might have valuable information, too valuable to let go unknown. On the other, if Nathaniel's still set on revenge he might find something he could use against the other Wardens. He could lie about the content of the letters and send them in a thousand wrong directions. He could do a potentially significant amount of damage.

She can't for the life of her fathom why he'd offer. He'd just ran away yesterday, expecting to be killed for it. The sudden turnaround does nothing for her faith in him.

She isn't the only one who's thought it, it seems: Varel's expression is bland but there's a flicker of questioning when he looks to her, Mistress Woolsey frowns and Anders leans on the table and asks, "Are we _sure_ no one else here speaks Orlesian?"

Nathaniel glowers, looking a bit like an unhappy raven hunched over in his chair. "I don't suppose _you_ do, do you?"

Anders snorts. "I grew up in the same Tower she did. I read the same damned dialects of Arcanum." His mouth slips into a grin. "I know a few Orlesian words, true, but only the naughty ones."

Therrin fidgets under the table, trying to think. "All right," she says at last, stuffing the letter back into the envelope and stacking it with the others. "We'll start going over them in a bit." In my office, she thinks, where I can watch you read and see if I can catch you lying.

Nathaniel nods and goes back to his meal, and as everyone else eats breakfast Therrin sits at the head of the long table and tries not to feel desperately out of place.

-oOo-

Cullen has to wonder about Therrin's choices of Warden recruits.

It only takes the sergeant's mention of darkspawn in the basements before she's on her feet, ordering the others along. Nathaniel looks dour and doesn't even seem well-armed, Anders seems physically incapable of shutting up, and Oghren is so drunk that twice Cullen has to remind him where they're going in the first place.

The closeness of the basements makes Anders' chattering seem worse. He keeps up a running commentary that only varies in volume and grows markedly sharper when he bangs his knee stumbling on an uneven bit of stairs.

Therrin hardly seems to take notice, frowning into the dark places down the hallway and looking preoccupied. "What is a knickerweasel, exactly?"

Oghren sniggers. "C'mon, now." His grin at Therrin is sloppy and wide. "As much as you and Alistair carried on in that tent? You can't tell me you don't know. Unless…" he gives a gravelly laugh. "Unless it's true and they really do snip the templars." He nudges Cullen. "Eh? How about it?"

Therrin glances back, annoyed, but before she can respond, Anders says, "Wait _just_ a minute. Not… not King Alistair, the one who was just here. He's a templar?" His expression contorts in disgust. "And you _slept _with him?"

Brilliant, Cullen thinks dully. Just brilliant.

Therrin looks distinctly peevish. "That is none of your business."

"Yep," Oghren supplies. "Kept us up all hours of the night with the racket."

"A templar," Anders repeats, looking utterly horrified. "You slept. With a templar. Are you out of your mind?"

"Two of 'em," Oghren volunteers with a jerk of his head toward Cullen. Oghren snickers, interrupted by a hiccup that rocks him back on his heels. "She's a collector."

It's almost a mercy then to hear the groans of skeletons as they stir to life, the stirring feeling of a malevolent force of magic. This, at least, Cullen can do. He doesn't know what to say and he isn't a Warden, but he can damn well swing a sword. The fight doesn't take long and when it's over Cullen looks around warily for more and casts about desperately for a new topic of conversation.

Anders is faster, and not to be dissuaded. "A collector." His glance at Cullen is repulsed. "You don't actually mean… the two of you…"

"It's _none_ of your business," Therrin snaps again, and it sounds like _no_ and though he knows it's unreasonable it makes Cullen's day just that much worse.

There are doors upon doors, closed and warped from water and time, and Nathaniel picks most of the locks with ease as they head ever-deeper into the basements. There are chests and bookshelves, wicked-looking spikes in the cells and ghouls huddled into corners before they attack. They're learning, Cullen thinks as they fight, they're getting the hang of staying out of each other's ranges. Each skirmish seems shorter than the one before, even with the close quarters they're in. The biggest danger comes when Oghren stumbles mid-swing and takes a swipe that veers perilously close to Nathaniel's side.

Nathaniel looks furious, and when Oghren proves to be utterly unapologetic Cullen bites his tongue to keep from telling him _you're too drunk to fight, you're a danger to us all._

At the bottom where the basements end in rubble that leads to the Deep Roads, Therrin confers with one of the dwarves from above while Cullen keeps an eye on Nathaniel and Anders. They don't seem inclined to run, not openly, but Cullen isn't going to be lulled into complacency.

Even Anders goes quiet in the Deep Roads, though. Something about the long stone halls seems oppressively silencing, pressing down all around them. Cullen strains his ears for the stirring that will mean more darkspawn, or skeletons, trying to pick the sounds of impending danger out of the echoes of other noises coming down through the halls ahead of them.

There are more than enough darkspawn to keep them occupied. When at last they find the giant set of doors Therrin sends Nathaniel back to fetch the dwarf and the sergeant, and once they're preoccupied with fixing the mechanism, Cullen follows Therrin's lead back down the hall. She busies herself rifling through the armor of the fallen darkspawn, pulling out vials of potions and the occasional bit of jewelry, examining each new discovery before she tucks it away. With Anders and Nathaniel listening to some story of Oghren's—and not, for the moment, running off—Cullen crouches down next to Therrin and looks closely at the hurlock she's kneeling beside.

It truly is a monstrous creature. He'd never been so close to one, not without being distracted by fighting for his life. Cullen scrutinizes it in the spell-light, taking in the rotted color of its flesh and the unnatural sharpness of its skull through its skin. It looks like something out of a nightmare. The Taint, he thinks absently, and then catches Therrin glancing at him sidelong and his stomach seems to flip, a wavering feeling as his own words come back to him: _they're monsters, what does that make you?_

"I didn't mean to imply that you were a monster, before," Cullen says, pitching his voice low to keep their conversation private. "This is all… very new. To me, at least."

Therrin nods, hands resting lightly on the hurlock's armor. "I know. I remember how it was when it was all new to me. It's a lot to take in all at once." She glances at him and looks away. "I'm sorry for barging in this morning. I didn't know you were in there."

Cullen tries to force away a twist of embarrassment with only minimal success. He doesn't know what to say, and in the end he settles for a rather weak smile. "No harm done."

But it feels awkward again, deeply uncomfortable, as though they've lost all sense of how to exist in the same space anymore. Therrin tugs something from the hurlock's armor, frowning. "Another key. This is the third one."

Cullen rocks back on his heels, trying to fathom why she tucks it away. "Do you need keys?"

Therrin huffs a short laugh. "Generally speaking, keys open things. But in this case, I've no idea what." She looks up at him briefly. "Would you want to come to bed with me tonight?"

He thinks for a moment he can't have heard that right. His ears are playing tricks on him. "I'm sorry?" Surely she said something like _do you want this key?_ or _hand me that sword_ _over there_ and not what he thinks he heard.

A flush creeps up Therrin's cheeks. "I thought I'd ask."

"You…" Cullen reels for a moment. How in the world had he forgotten how blunt she could be? It had been amusing, at times, a bit appalling at others, but now it seems to have tipped the world upside down in the space of a heartbeat. "You're serious."

"Yes. I am." Therrin glances over at the others, but no one seems to be listening in. "It doesn't seem like this is working," she goes on, low enough he can hardly hear. "I thought once we left Denerim things would start getting better but they haven't. I know it doesn't help that we haven't had ten minutes without something going wrong, but I thought if we had some privacy and just… tried." She swallows hard. "That maybe it would be less awkward than it already is. Unless you don't want to anymore," she finishes, when Cullen doesn't answer.

_Anymore?_ he thinks, his heart dropping like a stone. "No. No, it's not that," he says, trying to organize his scattered thoughts into something like sense, to wrestle some usefulness from his shocked-still tongue. "I do. Want to. Very much."

"Right," she says, voice strained.

"If you're sure," he goes on, because she looks a half-second away from changing her mind.

Therrin nods. "Yes." He thinks she looks ready to bolt; her nervousness only makes him more nervous. None of it is particularly encouraging.

"Tonight, then," he says, feeling a dual tug of apprehension and hope at the word. As abrupt as it seems, maybe it's for the best. Perhaps the situation isn't going to repair itself. Perhaps the time for bold measures has come after all. Tonight, he thinks again, and then: Maker help me.


	7. The Fall

There are worse things in the world than having a room to come back to after fighting darkspawn, Therrin thinks, up to her chin in the big stone bath. In the old days they were lucky to have a creek nearby to splash off the worst of the blood in. Now she's got a whole room all to herself, with a real bath and real soap and real privacy. And a real bed, she remembers, peering over the tub's edge to get a look at it. The bed seems high and huge in comparison with the bunks at the Tower, big even against the bed at Arl Eamon's, as though it had been made for a crowd. It doesn't bear thinking about.

At the sight of it, trepidation seems to trickle in a cold stream behind her breastbone. She hasn't actually slept in it yet. That first night she'd curled up with Stephen, and the night after that she'd fallen asleep face-down on her desk. The prospect of using it tonight is more than a little daunting.

It shouldn't be, she tells herself. In the absence of measurable progress, taking action is the reasonable thing to do. Never mind that taking action in this case means a good bit more than simply fighting. Never mind that battle is so much less complicated than this. It had seemed sensible enough earlier, and Maker knows she and Cullen could side-step each other and fumble around at the edges of the situation for ages without getting it right. Maybe it's better to cut to the heart of the matter.

He hadn't said no when she invited him to bed, at least. Brooding over it isn't going to help in the slightest. It'll work, or it won't, and that'll be it.

Except, she thinks as she dresses, that if it doesn't work she has no idea what comes next.

After Stephen comes in for dinner and goes again for bed, after the sun sets and she lights the fire her room feels large and very empty. She sits on the couch and wrestles with the nerves making knots of her belly, and listens to Dog polishing off the last scraps of dinner. Aside from the wet smacking of his jowls and the low crackle of the fire the room is quiet, and with time trickling away there seems to be little else to do but fret.

Maybe she should have headed down for her office instead of waiting here. Waiting is going to drive her mad. At least paperwork could have kept her occupied.

Dog finishes licking the plate clean and ambles over, sitting down at her feet so she can scratch his ears, but what little peace that diversion provides flees entirely at the sound of the knock on the door. Therrin's stomach plummets. "Who is it?" she calls. As though she has to ask.

"It's me. Cullen," she hears, muffled by the door, and thinks, of course it is, you invited him here, this was _your idea_, genius.

With nothing else for it, Therrin answers the door.

It helps a little that Cullen looks exactly as strained as she feels. When she invites him in, her voice is miraculously steady; when Dog slips out and Cullen closes the door behind himself his hand hovers a moment at the lock, indecisive, before he turns it and the bolt slides home with a click.

It seems a terribly significant sound.

After that, everything goes awkward again. Cullen studies the pattern on the woven rug, avoiding her eyes, and Therrin worries at her bottom lip with her teeth and tries to figure out how best to approach this. "Would you like to sit down?"

He hesitates. "Yes."

Side-by-side on the couch she can feel the warmth of him, like sitting comfortably close to a campfire. Nothing else is comfortable. Her spine feels too rigid and her hands seem fidgety, and Cullen sits stiffly as though the tension is contagious. "Do you want a drink?" she offers.

"No. Thank you." He eyes the decanter of wine on the table, and for a second she thinks he's going to change his mind.

After that, she doesn't know what to offer. She forces herself to relax into the back of the couch and he does the same, following her lead, the relaxation such a farce she grimaces. _I'm not going to jump you_, she considers saying, and settles for taking his hand instead.

His eyes cut over in surprise, the first time he's actually looked at her, questioning and unshielded. Maybe he's expecting more, something as bold as her initial invitation had been earlier. _All right, you're here, off with the clothes_. She snorts an almost-silent laugh.

"What?"

Therrin shakes her head in response. "It's a shame that I had to nearly drown before to break the ice," she says, trying for humor. Her voice sounds thin to her own ears, but she finishes, "I don't think there are any lakes around I could jump into to see if it would work again." When he doesn't respond, she asks, "Do you remember—"

"Yes." Something changes in his expression but she can't determine what it means, and she drops her gaze to their mingled fingers instead, swallowing a bewildering disappointment. This is fine, she thinks, this is more than enough for now: to relax by increments, to relearn how to exist in the same space in peace with expectations pushed to the back of her thoughts.

Except that when she least expects it, Cullen kisses her.

Her heart seems to leap for her throat in surprise, almost painful. It's too much, she thinks for a wild moment with his mouth warm against hers, there's too much between them for this, she should have waited, they should have tried something else. When he pulls away his eyes are open and grave. "If you'd rather I go…" he begins.

No, but it isn't just the one choice, Therrin thinks, throat tight, it isn't just the one invitation that sets everything right. It's every little choice along the way, waiting to be made. "I think I'd rather try that again, actually," she manages, and gathers up her courage and kisses him.

This time is better, much better. How much he remembers and how much he might be discovering for the first time, she doesn't know, his assurances about his returning memory aside. She remembers, even if he doesn't: remembers the spot at the side of his neck that makes his breath catch, remembers the fit of him against her, remembers a dozen melting kisses just like this that had ended with the sight of his back disappearing out her door as he'd left her office.

But there's no separation now, no hurry to make the most of every second because their seconds are numbered. There's only the distance between them, narrowing, contracting into warmth as his hands begin to remember her better and they draw closer.

When he pulls away Therrin swallows a frustrated noise of protest. But his eyes are at the collar of her robe, following his fingertip tracing the line of cloth against her skin in a curve of sparks that make her shiver. "Are you all right?" she asks.

He nods, and glances over her shoulder towards the oversized bed.

An echo of the nervousness from before returns, wholly unwelcome. Kissing is fine—more than fine, it almost hurts how much she'd missed it—but they hadn't shared a bed since Lothering, and not a comfortable one since the Tower. Still, she thinks, this is no place to stop. When she stands he follows, still holding her hand, looking from her to the high bed as though his own nerves have returned. He takes an unsteady breath anyway and pulls off his shirt, only glancing up at her once as he goes for the laces of his trousers.

When she strips off and crawls up into bed, it feels more like a hammock. As she shifts toward the middle the mattress dips and sways beneath her, lurching at every movement as she pulls the covers over her. She watches Cullen undress and fold his clothes up neatly, and glances at the floor where she'd left her robe crumpled, briefly embarrassed, but there isn't time to think about it.

The mattress had wobbled beneath her weight, but it lurches even more dramatically as Cullen settles himself beneath the covers, looking concerned. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"I don't know," she admits. "I haven't slept in it yet. Maybe?"

Cullen frowns as though he could see through the mattress to the root of the problem. "It doesn't feel right. Maybe we should check…" A furrow appears between his eyebrows, and Therrin's convinced for a moment that he's going to leap from the blankets and start tinkering with the ropes holding up the mattress in the name of having something else to do. But the moment's consternation passes and he settles beside her instead. "Later, perhaps."

Therrin nods, unable to speak. Perhaps they should have stopped with kissing. Perhaps it isn't only his uncertainty keeping them apart, like she'd almost had herself convinced.

But this close she can feel the heat of his body across her skin, and it tugs at the knotted tense places inside her. The mattress sways and dips precipitously at their combined weight in one spot but it doesn't matter. When she kisses him again it gets better, his mouth soft and responsive, the bed warming around them. His fingertips brush along her jaw, down the side of her neck, tracing down the line of an arm, sending answering trails of heat through her skin.

Better, she thinks, the word like a chant. As time melts out slow the rest of the room seems to disappear, and the thready sound he makes seems encouragement enough to take it further. But apparently he's had the same thought. Therrin tries to push, to ease him back and roll atop him and at the same time he mirrors the motion and tries to roll above her and it doesn't work. Instead, she feels absurdly like a child in a Circle hallway fight, pushing back and forth with no hope of really winning anything.

Cullen swallows hard. "Here." He rolls onto his back, hands dipping lower down her body and pulling her along; Therrin straddles him and tries not to get in the way of his hands, and he doesn't remove them from her hips. "Is that…?"

Therrin nods. "That's fine."

In the wavering light of the fire, she can't tell if he's about to laugh or give up entirely. His natural reserve helps by exactly nothing. If he was more demonstrative, she would know what to do.

If he was more demonstrative, he wouldn't be Cullen.

But there's a feeling of something hard against the very back of her thigh, and she supposes that's clear enough. Therrin bends low, planting her hands on either side of his head and leaning in for a kiss. The mattress seems to tilt and she can't compensate quickly enough and their mouths jolt together hard. Therrin draws back to apologize, but Cullen had wound a hand into her hair and when she pulls away a tangle catches on his fingers and she winces.

"Sorry." Cullen rubs his face with one hand, looking more frustrated by the moment. "Just… here."

He draws her down closer, carefully. Once she's stretched out along his body and lying on his chest he kisses her again, slowly, with no sudden moves or anything that would make the mattress tip again. And this is… well, this is more than fine, she thinks, the edges of her mind going hazy and dark as thought gives way to feeling.

His hands are warm and a little rough against her skin, sending skitters of sensation racing along her nerves. Warmth pours down through her skin, pooling down low in her belly and spreading out in waves. It's working, she thinks, almost painfully relieved, and she reaches down between them to adjust one-handed.

And _that_ is just as it had ever been, she thinks dimly as she slips down onto him. For a moment she can hardly breathe, but when she looks at him it all goes wrong again. She pushes up to her hands, wishing he'd open his eyes because it feels more difficult than before, disconnected, as though they're both doing this but not doing it together.

She swallows the feeling and pushes onto him, rocking once, and again, and then again, which is too much for the tattered rope holding up the mattress.

There's a zipping sound of cord running fast over a wooden corner which doesn't even have time to sink in before they're falling, and she shouts in surprise as the bed and Cullen both drop out from beneath her. They land with a muffled sound as the mattress hits the stone of the floor, tumbling into an uncoordinated pile of limbs and blankets. Cullen grunts as she lands on him, managing to jab one of her knees perilously close to his groin. "Sorry!"

"It's fine," Cullen mutters, in a tone so grim Therrin knows that it is most certainly not fine.

Dog _whuffs_ from just outside the door, concerned.

"I'm fine. We're fine." Therrin sighs from where she'd fallen across Cullen's body, which is becoming more embarrassing by the moment. "The Fade take me," she manages, sitting up. "I guess we should've checked the bed after all."

Cullen swallows, eyes still closed. "No point in it, now. We're already on the floor, it can't get worse."

Disappointment settles like lead in the pit of Therrin's belly. "Can't get worse? It's _us_."

He cracks open one eye, skeptical.

"Just wait," she says, face getting hot and every word frustrated. "We'll have fallen on some weak spot in the mortar that's been crumbling for a thousand years. We'll fall fifteen stories through the floor into the Deep Roads. Vigil's Keep will collapse on top of us and kill everyone here, and then we'll be murdered by the darkspawn."

There's a pause as Cullen's eyes open and his forehead wrinkles in thought. "I think I know why people follow you," he says, so deadpan she doesn't catch on until he says, "You're a beacon of optimism."

On impulse, Therrin hits him with a pillow. "It isn't funny."

Cullen looks momentarily shocked before he yanks the pillow from her hand. "Isn't it?"

"_No_." She reaches for another pillow—this level of failure calls for hitting something, surely, and Cullen is conveniently right there—but he snatches them away and tosses them over the bed frame to disappear somewhere into the shadows of the room. "Those were mine," she protests, wondering when her love life became so hopeless.

"Not if you're going to hit me with them."

"Then they stop being mine?"

Cullen snorts. "Yes."

This might be one of the more ridiculous arguments of her entire life, granted, but she lunges to the side of the bed after a pillow anyway until Cullen laughs and the sound stops her cold. She hasn't heard him actually laugh in what feels like forever; the sound is so surprising that she hesitates and he hauls her backward, flipping her onto her back and pinning her to the fallen mattress.

There's a long, breathless moment where they simply stare at each other and Therrin almost laughs, but a heartbeat later everything goes into motion. His mouth descends on hers, hot and seeking in a way that makes her nerves thrum with pleasure, and when he settles into place above her body she slides her legs around him without a second thought, urging him closer and then in and then deeper. With his head on her shoulder she can feel the brush of his eyelashes against her collarbone, can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath her hands; he waits a moment, and then another, and then begins to move.

There is none of the hesitation of earlier, no second-guessing. It's almost like Lothering, she thinks briefly, and wonders if he remembers and pushes the thought away entirely in favor of not thinking at all. They had survived, and it was enough. It had led them here, and that was enough, more than enough.

Later, when she collapses back onto the pillowless bed and tries to remember how to breathe, she almost laughs again in disbelief, but smothers it down in favor of rolling back toward Cullen.

"Oh," he says, mostly into the mattress, muffled but rough.

She does laugh, then, fondly. "Are you all right?"

"You don't have to keep asking that." He pushes up to his side and puts an arm around her, and she lets him pull her in. "If I wasn't all right, I'd tell you." She gives him a skeptical look, but he shakes his head. "I'm fine. Very fine," he admits, smiling. "How are you?"

Therrin scrambles briefly for something like Zevran might say, something flirtatious and obscene to make him laugh, but nothing comes to mind. "Good," she says instead.

He watches her for a moment, and then hooks a finger around one of her errant locks of hair, easing it from around her neck. "Good." He hesitates. "Do you want me to stay?"

That he hadn't planned on it makes her frown in alarm. But he doesn't look as though he wants to go, only as though he might be expected to. "Yes," Therrin says, reaching for his hand again and intertwining his fingers with her own. "I'd like that." And more than that, she thinks, wondering if she ought to ask him to move his things in, to share the bed on a more permanent basis.

But Cullen seems satisfied and relaxes into the fallen mattress and Therrin decides to leave the question for later. Once Cullen's breathing evens out and she's certain he's asleep she douses the lamps with a flick of suppressive magic, watching the fires go dim and leaving them cocooned together in the cradling darkness.


	8. The Crack in the Stone

Vigil's Keep is a place of so many smells. Dog pads along with his nose to the ground, sniffing happily. There are the metal-scents of knights, sweat and steel and man, there are the smells of food from the kitchen, there are the smells of wood and paper at Therrin's office, and beneath it all the scent of stone, cool and a little damp and old.

Varel the grey-man had said the keep was built on a mountain of bones, but try as he might Dog cannot find them. Therrin had ruffled his ears and called this a metaphor. Dog does not know what a metaphor is but maybe that is what the bones are kept in.

But for now he sniffs around elsewhere, nails clicking on the stone as he lets his nose lead the way, following the teasing lure of the smell of something interesting. He passes Varel in the hallway and then two of the maids, but they are talking about Nathaniel and pay Dog no attention at all.

Dog follows one of the knights outside, tail wagging happily. He loves when people hold open doors for him. There is nothing worse than being stuck on the wrong side of a door. In the courtyard there are more scents: the soft crush of grass beneath his paws, green and tickling at his nose, there is the dust-and-sharp smell of chickens nearby, there is…

There is something _else_ out here. The smell makes the hair at Dog's neck stand up all at once.

He begins sniffing in earnest along the corners of the courtyard, the edges where the stone meets the dirt and the interesting smell seems to linger. Something small then, and low, and Dog races along the ground, nose twitching madly and tail wagging with excitement.

In a crack in the stone, a little depression like a bowl tipped over, there is a very dirty cat.

Dog likes cats. It had been a long time ago, forever ago, before Therrin had come to his pen where he had been sick, but there had been a small fluffy cat that had slipped into the pen and purred at him and curled up beside him for warmth, and when the cat was there Dog had felt better and not so much like dying.

Hi, Dog says, tail wagging in a joyful blur. You are a cat!

The cat hisses quietly and backs up into the stone, and looks very small and very wet and very angry.

Are you going to play? Dog asks, dropping down lower to sniff at the tiny cat's orange fur. You are very small. Do you know how to play?

The cat hisses again, baring its teeth and so quiet it makes Dog's ears twitch, and when Dog sniffs at the cat's ears there is a blur of motion and then the slashing pain of being swiped across the nose with cat-claws, needle-sharp and stinging horribly, and Dog is so startled he takes off running back inside Vigil's keep, whimpering in alarm all the way.

He will find Therrin, Therrin will fix him and she will know what to do about the cat-monster because this is not a cat. Cats are nice and purr and do not attack dogs for no reason at all.

Therrin is in the big-room with Stephen and Anders, and the air smells like magic and lyrium and she makes a huffing noise when Dog tries to crawl into her lap. "Dog!"

There is paper beneath his paws, a book, and Dog backs off, whining softy.

It hurts, Dog says, ears drooping.

Therrin puts aside the mangled book, reaching out. "What happened?"

Dog sits, dejected. It hurts and had sharp ends and I was only trying to play.

Therrin blinks, baffled. "What?"

It's easier to show her than explain, and when Dog jumps up again all the humans follow. Therrin does something—and _oh_, his nose feels better, cold and fizzy like bubbles for a second—and her hand drops to his head and Dog pants with contentment.

The cat-monster is still there. Dog paces around the hollow in the rock, wary and whining. It is mean, he warns, but Therrin is already crouching down.

"Hey, little guy. Girl. Whatever you are."

Cat-monster, Dog reminds her, hovering at her shoulder and licking his nose nervously. She will get scratched, she will get hurt, and hurt is bad. Therrin pulls the cat into her hands, straightening, and the cat doesn't look like so much of a monster, then, but Dog knows better. It purrs with a sound like a rusty wheel turning and burrows into her neck. "Where did you come from?"

The cat purrs louder, kneading at the furry bits on Therrin's shoulders. Dog growls a warning—the cat has claws and cannot be trusted—but Anders is making a strange cooing noise. "Look how tiny he is!"

The cat glances down at Dog and smells smug. Dog growls again and the cat merely swishes its tail.

"He is tiny," Therrin says, petting the cat's striped back. "I wonder who he belongs to." But a quick canvass of the courtyard reveals that no one knows where the cat came from, no one knows whose it might be, and no one wants it. Dog is not surprised.

But Anders is agitated and keeps making grasping little finger-twitches at his sides when he looks at the cat, and while Stephen is occupied trying to sneak a glance at the new sword Master Wade is working on Dog sighs impatiently. Anders wants the cat, Dog tells Therrin.

Dog had thought Anders was a good sort of person, a used-to-be-friend of Therrin's and so a friend of Dog's, but now Dog is not so sure.

Therrin holds the cat out. "Do you want him?"

"What, me? Want a kitten?" Anders scoffs, smelling indecisive and hopeful all at once and stepping closer. "Kind of a mangy little thing, isn't he? Look at that ear." Anders flicks the cat's ragged right ear softly with a fingertip. "This one's a scrapper, I think. Probably tear my leg off."

But Therrin hands it over and Anders isn't reluctant at all once it's cradled in the crook of his arm. "What do you think, little guy? Going to have me for dinner?" The cat reaches up a paw and bats at the fur on Anders' shoulder. Anders only laughs. "Have to have something to eat, I'll bet. You're skin and bones."

The cat meows piteously.

"That's right," Anders agrees, voice going soft and high in a way that makes Dog's ears twitch. "You're a hungry little hunter, aren't you? Poor thing." His glance up at Therrin is worried. "We can't leave him here."

Therrin looks amused. "So keep him."

"A half-grown kitten? Keep him around, with all the darkspawn and fighting and sticky bits? That doesn't seem fair. But we can't just leave him." Anders looks pained for a moment, tickling the cat's belly with a finger. "Maybe just for a while, hmm? He's little enough for a pocket, for now." The cat meows again, and stretches out in Anders' arms, long and skinny and very orange. "Is that alright with you, kitty?"

The cat purrs loudly.

"Alright then." Anders tucks the cat into a pocket. It must be a big pocket, because it seems to swallow the cat whole for a second before the cat pops his head back out, meowing. "That's comfortable enough, isn't it?" Anders strokes the top of the cat's head, and the cat closes his eyes in pleasure.

Therrin sighs a little, rubbing Dog's ears when he presses close. "Alright. Crisis averted; monster… tamed. I suppose. We should get back to the lesson, Stephen."

Without saying anything else Anders follows Therrin inside, petting his cat, and Dog follows him, and Stephen follows Dog. But Anders doesn't stay quiet for long. "Do you want to hold him again? He seems to like you."

Therrin seems to hesitate.

"Oh, look," Anders says in that odd, high voice as he holds the cat out, legs dangling. "He's a helpless little kitty. How can you say no to that face?"

The cat meows pitifully.

Therrin looks reluctant, again, and after a moment shoots Anders a rather annoyed look. But she takes the cat into her arms and strokes down the length of its back, and the cat looks very content.

Dog does not like this at all. He growls a little, grumbling as he follows on, ears drooping and steps slow until he feels Stephen pet him on the back. "Don't worry," Stephen says matter-of-factly. "It's just a cat. She still likes you best."

Dog looks at the cat and whines, uncertain. How do you know?

Stephen smiles crookedly. "You're her dog."

It seems true, it seems right, and it makes Dog very happy. He licks at Stephen's ear and Stephen tastes of boy and dirt and magic, and just then Dog thinks that Stephen is one of the smartest humans he knows.

-oOo-

They'd missed breakfast. Between sleeping in and then not-sleeping and then the impromptu lesson with Anders, she'd forgotten, but by the time the lesson is over Therrin's stomach is growling insistently that it is time for food.

It turns out that she wasn't the only one who thought so. Everyone else is already assembled in the dining hall, eating with a will.

Except for Nathaniel, she realizes with a sinking feeling. Instead of eating, he's busy reading the Wardens' letters.

She hadn't told anyone else she intended to be present when he read them so it shouldn't trip her up, she thinks, but knowing it doesn't make it any better. There are nods of greeting and an uneven chorus of _Commander_, and a warm, small smile from Cullen as she slips into the seat beside him. With Varel at her other side there's a moment of oddness, a feeling that should be dissonant but isn't. This whole Warden-Commander thing is starting to feel more comfortable by the hour.

At least, as far as being Warden-Commander extends to sitting at the head of the table. Anything beyond that is an unknown quantity. But there isn't time to dwell on it. There is business to attend to and the way Varel launches into it makes her suspect that this is going to be the usual order of things, there are papers to look over, and bites of food to gulp down between issues.

The eating decision turns out to be a poor one. When Varel announces that the lords of Amaranthine are coming to swear fealty to her Therrin chokes, and it seems a long time before she can recover. She coughs, pained, and looks incredulously at Varel. "They're coming do to what?"

"To swear fealty to you." Varel leans on the table, looking concerned. "Commander, are you all right?"

"I… yes. Of course." Therrin pushes her plate away for good, baffled. "But I don't understand why anyone would need to come swear fealty. Not to a Warden-Commander." Swearing fealty to the Wardens seems improbable, and unnecessary, and significantly more political than she's comfortable with at all.

"Not to the Warden-Commander, no." Varel leans back in his chair. "But you _are_ the arlessa of Amaranthine, as well."

Therrin's brain comes to a full, dumbfounded stop, and stubbornly refuses to start working again. "That's impossible," she says, when Varel doesn't seem to catch on. "I'm a mage." She gestures to herself, to her robes, like he might have forgotten. "A mage can't hold a title in Ferelden."

This has to be some bureaucratic slip-up. Someone's gone and forgotten the rules. Something.

But Varel's certainty doesn't waver. "I believe an exception was made in this case by the king himself."

The world seems to drop out from underneath her for a moment. "You're joking," she protests weakly. But he isn't joking. She feels reasonably certain he wouldn't joke about something like this. So it must be true, she thinks, too stunned for words.

"I take it this is a surprise?" Varel asks, quietly and with a strange sort of mildness that jerks Therrin out of the relentless spinning of her own mind.

"Yes," she admits, taking a deep breath and letting it out. Her chest aches, and she can hardly think at all. "Yes. This is the first I've heard of it." When she glances over at Cullen he looks confused and concerned in equal measure.

Varel frowns minutely. "I see."

_Funny that Alistair didn't mention it while he was here_, Therrin thinks, a cool, numb feeling creeping up under the whirring panic of before. _Or not so funny, really. _

Arlessa. She is an arlessa. The thought is too bizarre for words. "And the nobility of Ferelden didn't immediately go mad?" she asks. Even if Alistair thinks it's fine—which, apparently, he does, and that's news to her—that doesn't mean that every other arl and bann and teyrn in the country will feel the same. Not to mention the people. She's half-surprised there isn't an angry mob at the front steps of the keep right now.

Varel clears his throat discreetly. "The title was kept unassigned for the duration of the Orlesian Wardens' holding. I don't need to tell you what a disaster it would've been politically to have a foreigner as the arl of Amaranthine."

Therrin nods.

Varel considers a moment. "Orlesians in charge wasn't a popular idea, regardless of whether they'd taken up the title or not. I believe it was deemed more secure for you to come in and take up both positions, Warden-Commander and arlessa. To bridge the gap, as it were. And from what I understand, you're still quite a hero to the people. I doubt they'll forget the events of the Blight anytime soon."

_Wynne said differently,_ Therrin thinks with a sinking of dread. "Better a mage than an Orlesian, then?" she asks, the weak joke falling flat.

"Better a Fereldan than an Orlesian," Varel corrects quietly.

"And if I'd been an Orlesian-born mage?" Some perverse nudge of pessimism seems to force the question, though she suspects she already knows the answer.

Varel seems momentarily amused. "Then I don't believe we'd be having this conversation."

"No, of course not." Therrin props an elbow on the table and leans her head in her hand, rubbing at her forehead as though she could prod her thoughts into sense. She presses her eyes closed, briefly, and when she opens them Nathaniel is watching her, his expression utterly unreadable. It hits then, in an uncomfortable wash of understanding. His father was the arl. Nathaniel may well have been the heir_,_ for all she knows. He may loathe her for an interloper, he may think that he deserves to be sitting in her place, ruling Amaranthine.

She might end up getting her throat slit by a Howe after all.

"Can we discuss this in more detail later?" Therrin asks, voice miraculously steady. "I'd like some time to think about this." The word arlessa seems to have a weight to it, more than Warden-Commander had. The idea of what other responsibilities might come with the title looms like a wall in her mind.

"Of course," Varel says, and that's the end of that. As lunch winds down Therrin picks at the remnants of her food, uninterested and only staying to keep an eye on Nathaniel as he reads. Not knowing what the letters say is maddening, but it's almost equally maddening to watch the flickers of expression cross his face as he reads, small hints of confusion and frustration and once or twice, skepticism. But he holds his silence and reads, turning over one page after another without comment until he stops, frowning openly at the pages in his hands.

That's just about all the not-knowing she can take. "Nathaniel. You keep glaring at that thing, what does it say?"

Nathaniel glances her way, looking unsettled. "I'm not… completely certain. The letter mentions pirates…"

"Pirates?" Anders perks up, sitting higher in his chair.

"Just outside the port," Nathaniel goes on as though he hasn't heard. "The Warden seemed to think something odd was going on, but he doesn't mention why he thought it was odd. Just that sea traffic was slowing to a crawl."

Therrin mulls it over. "Does Amaranthine often have trouble with piracy?"

Nathaniel snorts in quiet derision. "No. The city guard keeps the port well-patrolled. Or they did, once. This would never have happened before."

_When my father was in charge,_ Therrin finishes for him silently.

Varel looks thoughtful. "If the road's in a hard spot and the sea is overrun by pirates, that puts Amaranthine in a difficult situation, Commander. A city that size can't stay cut off for long without dire consequences."

Therrin nods, thinking. Not that she has any idea of what to do about pirates. Isabela was the only pirate she'd ever actually met, and that meeting hadn't exactly been all about staying on any particular side of the law. "Wait, what's going on with the road?"

"No one's entirely certain." Varel leans back in his chair. "The Pilgrim's Path has had its fair share of troubles over the years, storms from the north causing landslides, the odd bear getting aggressive, that sort of thing. It could be bandits, or darkspawn. One account we've heard indicated the trees had come to life and started talking."

"Talking trees," Anders repeats, skeptical. "Right. How drunk was the fellow reporting in?"

Varel looks amused. "I couldn't say, myself, but given what I've heard it's not out of the question."

Therrin thinks it over. Not that talking trees are entirely unheard of, in her experience, but the Grand Oak hadn't attacked anyone. Even if there is something similar going on along the road it could take ages to pinpoint where. The road isn't short and finding one tree among a hundred thousand is no small task.

Easier and faster to tackle the pirate problem, and from what Varel had said it wasn't a situation she could afford to let rest.

_And these are your people,_ the reminder prods pointedly. _If you're the arlessa, this is all your responsibility, even more so now than before._

"All right," Therrin says decisively, rising to her feet. "Let's get equipped and get on the road. We're going to Amaranthine."


	9. Free Drinks and Bad Advice

Delilah is _alive_.

The thought burns like an ember, smoldering in Nathaniel's brain and propelling him forward. It had been shock enough to make him stand there and gape when Samuel had emerged from around a corner, dropped his armful of sacks, and raced over to greet him. The news that his sister is alive is almost more than Nathaniel can process.

He had thought her dead for months, had mourned her with all his heart, and the news that she's alive and in Amaranthine is enough to drive him nearly mad with worry and anticipation. His leathers seem creaky and confining, protesting with every step as he hurries on, unable to think anything more than _what if it isn't true—but what if it is?_

The other Wardens seem to dawdle as they approach Amaranthine, taking in the sight of the great stone walls like simple-minded bumpkins who have never seen a proper city before, and briefly Nathaniel considers just slipping away. He could do it, he knows, it would be child's play to blend into the shadows and go, to seek out his sister and see for himself if Samuel was right. He could probably even be back before they missed him.

No. If he goes and the Commander does notice, he doesn't know that she'll be merciful again for his second desertion.

Nathaniel doesn't quite know what to think. Within the Wardens, there's an odd sort of sanctuary; without it, he's got precious little in the way of allies and resources. If the murmurs he'd heard when he came back from the Free Marches can be believed his father's reputation has fallen incredibly far, and Nathaniel can't trust that he won't be recognized by some one-copper thug with a nasty temper and a long-held grudge. Better to stay, then, just for now, to use the Wardens as a shield until he doesn't need to anymore.

The feeling of being back in Amaranthine is momentarily overwhelming. Vigil's Keep had been home, true, but Amaranthine has its own particular allure, an anticipatory thrumming of possibilities that had seemed so vast and open when he'd been a boy. It had all seemed so big, then, so grand and shining. Now the city seems overcast with an invisible pall of desperation. The contradiction between the city of his memories and the city before his eyes feels jarring, uncomfortable, and Nathaniel tries without success to shrug off the sensation of being badly out of place.

"Do you know where your sister might be?"

When Nathaniel shakes himself from his reverie the Commander is looking at him, waiting. "I..." He frowns, hoping his surprise isn't as obvious as he fears it is. "I thought the pirates were our main priority."

She gestures at the rapidly-darkening sky. "It's getting late, and I'm supposed to meet with the captain of the guard in the morning for a briefing. For the moment, we're free, but I don't know the city. If you know where she might be, lead on."

The expectation on her face takes him aback. "Samuel said she'd married a merchant," he says, after a moment. "The merchant quarter's this way, down this road."

He wishes Samuel had given him more information. Amaranthine isn't small and none of these faces look familiar. The roads and alleyways haven't changed but so much else has. There are shops that used to be in different places, new ones opened and old ones disappeared, stalls set up in places he's unaccustomed to seeing them. The confusion of trying to move through old territory that doesn't look as he'd remembered makes the feeling of contradiction press in closer, a feeling compounded by the smart-looking banners flying high above and the refugees huddled in miserable heaps in the alleys.

It's impossible to get a feel for the city like this. He could be going about this more cautiously than he needs to be, but better not to find out by pressing too far and coming up on the wrong end of a knife. Anyway, though the first few inquiries produce nothing of use, after a while they come across a middle-aged man with a crooked walk and a tattered hat and he points them back the way they came.

Nathaniel hesitates for a moment before the door of what the man had said was his sister's shop, hoping to find her but almost hoping not to find her here in this ragged-looking hole in the wall that doesn't even have a decent lock. But he knocks, and waits, wound tight with nerves.

There isn't an answer.

Another knock, then, louder, and he tries to hear anything beyond the door but the noise of the street is too much. But the door doesn't open.

"Nathaniel!"

His head jerks in the direction of the sound and it's Delilah, running his direction at top speed. She nearly tackles him in an embrace, tight and fervent and blessedly real. For a moment he can't get his breath. "Delilah?" She doesn't let go, shows no signs of ever letting go, and he returns her embrace tightly. "I thought..."

"I feared the worst," she interrupts, a hitch in her voice and her arms around him nearly tight enough to hurt. "And I missed you so." She pulls back abruptly, eyes bright with unshed tears, taking in the sight of him at arm's-length.

He can hardly believe it—after so long thinking she'd died the surge of relief at seeing her is staggering—but he can't help note the unsophisticated simplicity of her clothing, the signs of fatigue around her eyes. "Delilah, come with me. Back, to the estate. There's no need for you to stay here like this any longer—"

Her forehead crinkles as she frowns, and for a moment she looks just like their mother. "What?"

"Samuel said you'd married some merchant—"

Delilah laughs, interrupting and a little incredulous. "Albert? Yes, I married him. I adore him. I'm not going back."

A nudge at his elbow startles Nathaniel for a split-second, some errand-boy with a stack of packages in his arms. Nathaniel suppresses a surge of irritation as the boy scurries off. "I don't understand."

Delilah considers him a long moment, a wistful half-smile at her mouth, and makes a sound that isn't quite a sigh. "I don't suppose the middle of the road's the best place to discuss what happened, is it? And I'm sure you've commitments to attend to. You're the Warden-Commander, aren't you?" Nathaniel turns just long enough to see the Commander give a brief nod. Delilah's hand is still on his arm and her fingers curl against his skin as though she doesn't want to let go.

Nathaniel doesn't want to let go either, not now, and he doesn't understand why Delilah seems so melancholy but he doesn't want to ask, not here in the street with the citizens of Amaranthine and the Wardens all listening in. He glances back again at the brief feel of a hand on his other arm. "Take what time you need," the Commander says in a low voice. "We'll find somewhere to stay for the night. Catch up with us later."

A rush of unexpected gratitude makes his voice momentarily unreliable, and he nods in answer. As the other Wardens head down the street Delilah spares them only a glance. "Come," she says, smiling warmly. She slips her hand in his and leads him down the street, toward the door of a plain little house. "I almost can't believe you're here. We've so much to talk about."

-oOo-

There are templars _everywhere_.

Anders is—predictably—not crazy about this, in the same way that a cat is not crazy about the presence of several very large, very hungry dogs, and though Cullen had been bad enough he's at least housebroken (or something, even in his head the metaphor's gone a tad nutty and he can't be bothered to care). But these other templars look downright nasty, and even though they're helmed he can feel the eyes on him, heavy and intrusive as he follows along after Therrin and wonders what a man has to do to get a drink around here.

So far, being a Grey Warden has meant lots of walking, the occasional scuffle with darkspawn, and following along as Nathaniel had poked his nose into midden-stacked alleyways looking for his sister.

Anders had been rather under the impression that there'd be more heroics.

Something.

Anything.

Is it possible to be twitchy over the presence of so many templars and bored all at the same time?

He keeps an eye out for Namaya, always, peeking down side-passages and around corners to catch a glimpse of her, but there are hardly any elves here at all and none who look like her. Not surprising, he tells himself. She's probably long gone. It shouldn't sting—he wouldn't have waited around for her, not for this long—but he can't suppress a sharp twist of unease at the thought of his phylactery out there somewhere. Too much to hope for that it might slip and fall and shatter on its own, or for the vial to get rinsed out and used for a macabre little drinking-glass. He has the bizarre mental image of Greagoir and Irving having a tea party with the phylacteries, pinkies in the air and sipping delicately, and that's just about as much as he can stand.

"You know," he begins, sidling in closer to Therrin and trying to figure out how to phrase this. "If we're looking for... well, the seedy underbelly of Amaranthine—pirates, smugglers, pastry-thieves—we might start at the taverns. Might hear something useful, something interesting. Drunk men tend to talk, you know, get loud and careless. Could be a place to start."

And so, yes, he's making all this up as he goes along and even as he says it he knows it's a line of utter rubbish, but it's rubbish Therrin agrees with, and once inside the tavern, Anders can relax. There aren't any templars here and no one gives him a second look… well, no, that's not quite true, there are definitely some second looks, but that's to be expected, really, and in any case no one seems prepared to make an issue of his being there. In his pocket, Ser Pounce-a-lot stretches, hooked little claws prickling against his thigh before Anders pulls out the bleary-eyed cat and plunks him on the table.

Oghren returns with glasses of something, and Anders doesn't know what it is but it smells strong enough to strip the varnish off a table. Oghren passes them around with a wide, crooked grin, nudging the cat's tail out of the way to set a glass in front of Anders. Cullen gives his drink a skeptical look, uncomfortable, but when Oghren laughs and hoists his glass high, everyone drinks.

As soon as it hits his tongue, Anders suspects that it really is varnish remover.

He downs it all anyway, which might be a mistake. Not eating anything since lunch combined with the bizarre Wardeny alterations to his metabolism means the alcohol goes straight to his head, making the room seem tilty and pleasantly bright within moments.

Which is sort of fantastic, really. Come to think, Anders can't think of any time he'd ever just been out, able to just sit in a tavern without having to keeping an eye on the door. The novelty of being free to enjoy a drink—and bless that fuzzy little dwarf, he's already slid another over, and Anders nods in appreciation—it's quite fun, actually. The cat purrs and Anders teases his tail idly with a finger, increasingly giddy and enjoying the floating feeling of intoxication. He hardly even complains when Oghren tips over and spills half a drink across Anders' leg. "You..." Anders says, a bit unsteadily. "You just watch yourself, _dwarf_."

Oghren makes a face. "Aww. Did I get your pretty dress wet?"

"They're _robes_," Anders insists, leaning one elbow on the table. "They're very comfortable. Give it a year or two and everyone will be wearing them."

Oghren snorts, froth clinging to his mustache. "Not sodding likely." He gives his breastplate a metal-sounding thump. "No _real _warrior would ever give up his armor."

"Yes, but you have to wear enough padding underneath to suffocate you." Anders gestures to his robes. "Me? I can breathe. It's very freeing. Mages don't have to wear smallclothes or anything."

Oghren seems to chew on that thought a moment, and then darts a suspicious glance at Therrin. "The boss does though; I've seen her in her drawers before." He grunts a laugh. "And less."

Therrin doesn't seem particularly concerned, but Cullen looks uncomfortable, which only makes Anders cheerier.

"It was at the temple of Andraste," Therrin chides mildly, and Cullen goes from uncomfortable to horrified.

Oghren is chortling—there is no other word for it, that is the chortle-iest chortle Anders has ever heard—and it makes Anders laugh, too. "Feels good not to be stuck in armor, doesn't it?"

"It does," Therrin concedes, resting her chin in her hand and looking rather relaxed.

"And there's the whole 'sneaking around the templars for a quick tryst' thing," Anders goes on, because he can resist everything except temptation and it's so _very _tempting to use his newfound freedom to jab at Cullen, just a bit.

Oghren looks skeptical. "Eh?"

"Oh yes." Anders takes another drink and licks the liquor from his bottom lip, and it doesn't really taste so much like varnish remover now. Turns out freedom is the best spice, after all. "You see," he goes on expansively, teetering a bit and nudging into Oghren in what he vaguely hopes is a friendly way. "It's very strict in the Circle, you know? Dormitories, and always being watched by the templars and all. No privacy to speak of. They make it damned hard to get laid."

Oghren makes a face of disgruntled sympathy. "Bastards."

"Exactly." Why hadn't he figured Oghren would be a kindred spirit? "So the robes, you see. You can sneak off into a corner, the library, the storeroom, have a bit of fun without any laces or buttons or buckles to fuss with. You can hear the templars coming a mile away—they clank like a stack of pots falling down a stairwell—so you always have time to finish up and go on with your business."

And it's damned satisfying that Cullen looks distinctly peevish, but Therrin's cheeks are a little pink in a way that doesn't seem to have anything to do with the liquor. And it takes him a minute to trace the thought back: living in a Tower with a limited population, everyone practically on top of one another… hmm. The half-memory comes back, faded by time and distraction, of a little apprentice who'd interrupted when he was with… what was her name? He can't remember. It isn't important. "Ask Therrin," he drawls out, feeling unaccountably smug. "She got a good long look. Didn't you?" Anders watches, vastly entertained, as her cheeks go pinker."Come on, be honest. How long had you been standing there?"

"I think you've had enough."

Anders grins at the evasion. "I'm just getting started. And you're familiar enough with how long I can go."

"You _do _have to deal with pirates tomorrow," Cullen says repressively, when Therrin laughs. "And smugglers, and probably darkspawn."

"You're right," Therrin says immediately. "Of course. Go to bed, Anders."

Anders only winks. "Lead the way." And so perhaps he's pushing things, here, but this is the first real fun he's had in ages and he isn't about to give it up now. There's a surreal moment where he thinks she's actually going to do it, but she only gets up to buy rooms for the night, and with that out of the way, gives them both strict orders not to drink too much and to send Nathaniel on if he shows. _Yeah_, he thinks as she disappears upstairs with Cullen_. Right_.

Oghren nudges him in the elbow. "You ever try lichen-ale?"

Anders thinks—or tries to think, because it's getting harder and harder to even remember how to work his own tongue—and frowns. "No. I haven't." Which almost seems a crime, really, to have lived this long without ever having tried lichen-ale before. "I have never, ever had lichen-ale." It comes out a bit indignant, because surely he would've tried it before, if he'd been allowed to live a normal life.

Lichen-ale. It just _sounds _appealing.

Oghren snickers. "You wait here."

Anders sighs happily, scratching Ser Pounce-a-lot on that little spot above his tail. It might not be much, but just now? Being here, in this tavern, with this cat and this dwarf and being precisely this drunk?

It seems like the best day of his life.


	10. Of Mice and Men

A rather seedy little tavern on what Cullen suspects to be the wrong side of Amaranthine is an odd place to call a council of war.

Still, that's what this feels like. The captain of the guard had come for Therrin early and Cullen and Nathaniel had spent the last few hours trailing after the pair of them as they'd headed for the docks, asking questions of the sailors who'd been on the attacked ships.

Though attacked isn't quite the word for it, not really. After the third sailor they'd talked to had given the same story as the others—a confession that he really didn't remember, had just got the feeling like he had to load cargo onto the other ship, and then afterwards felt a little sick, like waking up from a too-deep dream—that's when Cullen had begun to suspect that something magical was going on.

He'd been mulling it over when they went by the chantry to see if they could hear any more news, and the brand-new templar's earnest insistence that Amaranthine is a hotbed of maleficarum activity had rather sealed it. Still, he hadn't quite wanted to be the one to come out and say it, for all that his brain was as impatient and determined as a hound at the scent of a rabbit: _it's a blood mage, let's find it, it's a blood mage._

It had been a relief when Therrin had frowned and muttered an aside low enough that only he could hear: _sounds like it might be a blood mage. _

The tavern owner keeps tossing skeptical looks over at them as he wipes his mugs out with a rather grimy-looking rag, and Cullen wonders if they'd be better off doing this somewhere else, but Therrin and Nathaniel are occupied scratching out notes and diagrams and scrawled-out maps on a piece of vellum.

Occupied, anyway, until Anders staggers downstairs, stark naked with a black eye. "This is the worst day of my life," he intones solemnly before stumbling the last few steps and curling into a miserable heap in the chair beside Therrin. "I'm going to kill that dwarf."

Therrin wrinkles her nose. "What did you sleep in last night? You smell like rotten fish."

"I slept in the ocean," Anders mumbles into the table. "They made me the king of the eels. There was a ceremony and all; you weren't invited. _Hold_ me." He topples sideways, looking incredibly pathetic and trying to pillow his head on Therrin's lap.

When Therrin pushes him away Anders' hair sticks up in a hundred different directions. "Did you get in a fight?"

"I can't remember," Anders says, mournfully. "I woke up like this. Don't remember anything."

"And you didn't think to put your robes back on before you came downstairs?"

"I can't." Anders hiccups, skinny shoulders jerking with the motion. "I can't find them. I think someone took them; my staff too." He grimaces, looking panicky. "I think I'm going to—"

"Whatssa matter, can't hold yer liquor?"

Cullen glances up and wishes he hadn't. The sight of Oghren on the stairs in nothing but his breastplate and socks is something he could happily have lived without.

"—be sick," Anders finishes, a moment before he doubles over and vomits onto the floor. "Oh, that's better."

Cullen darts a glance at the tavern-owner, who scowls back darkly. He has the feeling this is going to turn out to be a very expensive expedition.

Therrin sighs and leans her elbows on the table, flicking the nib of her quill against her thumb in impatience. "Oghren, put some pants on."

Oghren teeters, unsteady on the stairs and leering. "Don't _need_ pants."

Therrin raises her eyebrows. "You're going to get splinters in your ass."

Oghren mulls that over a moment, grunting approval. "_Knew_ there was a reason they put you in charge."

The _back_ view of Oghren climbing the stairs in nothing but a breastplate and socks is something Cullen could have lived without, too. Therrin sighs when he's out of sight. "He's still drunk, isn't he?"

Cullen isn't exactly the best judge of the various stages of intoxication, but… "I think so."

Therrin's mouth tightens and she drags the vellum back over, shaking off the distraction. "We need to find out what's actually happening."

Nathaniel shifts in his chair. "I agree."                 

Cullen tries not to be openly skeptical. Nathaniel had seemed very different when he'd come in from his sister's house. There's only a shadow of his previous growling disdain. Now he seems mostly very quiet and lost in thought.

Cullen doesn't know if he trusts the change. "I thought you said it was a blood mage."

"I said it sounded like a blood mage. We don't know for certain yet." Therrin taps the corner of the vellum. "We need to see about getting on one of those ships and seeing exactly what's going on when the cargo's being unloaded."

Cullen relaxes. "That should be easy enough. If we tell the captain of the guard…"

But Therrin's shaking her head. "No. I think we should try to get on unseen. If it isn't a blood mage—if there's some sort of conspiracy going on—the crew would act differently with us aboard. But if we can slip on without them knowing we're there, we can find out what's going on."

Nathaniel looks troubled. "Forgive me, Commander. Are you suggesting we stow away on a ship and wait for it to be taken by pirates?"

Therrin gives a brief nod. "Exactly."

Nathaniel looks a bit pained, eyes raking over Therrin and Cullen in turn. "You're not exactly… you don't _blend in_, Commander. Neither of you do. If you try to get on a ship, people will know that you're there."

"Which would defeat the whole point," Therrin finishes, musing. "Hmm." She glances up at Cullen. "Well, _I_ can blend in. Or at least go unseen." Her expression goes amused as she gives Nathaniel an appraising look. "You're not afraid of mice, are you?"

"Mice? No."

"Good." Therrin caps the inkwell as though that settles it. "Nathaniel and I will get onto one of those ships and find out what's going on. Just to scout," she stresses, forestalling Cullen's argument. "I'd rather not tackle a blood mage with just two people. Especially not without you."

It makes him feel marginally better; still, he doesn't much like the plan. Especially since… "You're not leaving me with…" he gestures upstairs, and at Anders, slumped on the table. "With them. Are you?"

"No," Anders mumbles.

"Yes." She pushes the vellum over to Nathaniel. "It won't be for long. Hopefully. Two weeks at the outside, I'd think. Just try to see that they don't get themselves arrested, would you?"

"Two _weeks?"_

"At the outside," Therrin insists. "And if you can help it, don't kill Anders?"

Therrin rounds the table to press a quick kiss to his temple, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I can't promise that," Cullen grumbles. But Therrin heads out the door with Nathaniel, and Cullen sighs at the prospect of the time ahead, worried—because he's never going to stop worrying, not at the idea that there's a blood mage out there and Therrin's just going to go have a peek—and grimacing at the thought of the two Wardens in his charge.

_Perhaps I'll be lucky_, he thinks dully. _Perhaps I'll be very lucky and they'll both sleep the whole time she's gone._

-oOo-

The trick to getting into places, Nathaniel thinks, is to look for all the world like you belong there. It had been absurdly easy to find out which of the ships at the dock was the next scheduled to leave, and only slightly more complicated to get onto the ship itself. In early afternoon the shadows are meager and thin, but still, it had been enough.

The most difficult part of it came with the feeling of tiny claws at the back of his neck and a tail tucked into his collar. The bizarre awareness that the Commander is a mouse—a mouse hiding under his hair, no less—lends the entire situation a certain strangeness that's uncomfortably distracting. But he manages it anyway and the whole thing takes less time than he'd thought; they're tucked safely below deck behind crates of unknown cargo before anyone's aware of their presence, and Nathaniel lets out a near-silent breath of relief as he relaxes against the wood of the floor.

The Commander—and it is beyond strange to think of her as the Commander when she fits neatly into his palm; he'd nearly jumped out of his skin when she'd shapeshifted—wriggles slightly, and Nathaniel clenches his teeth to keep from making a sound.

Lovely to find out now that he's ticklish at the back of his neck. The twitching of very small whiskers makes him want to jerk away and slap his hand at his skin to get rid of the sensation.

Which would probably kill the mouse at his neck. It isn't a comfortable thought. A week ago—a couple of days ago, even—Nathaniel might have seized upon the opportunity to take advantage of this sort of vulnerability. It could be over in a moment: a high fall, one solid stamp of a boot, a quick twist to break the little neck.

Now… he isn't sure, now. He'd sent her to Amaranthine after the pirates because Amaranthine is still, in some part of him, his responsibility as a Howe, and if he has to resort to using the Wardens to protect it, he will, because there seem to be no alternatives. But he hadn't counted on her helping him find Delilah, and even less on her giving him the evening to stay with his sister.

Of course, his conversation with Delilah is something else to think about entirely. Nathaniel isn't quite certain what to make of it.

Anger and disbelief war inside him, though he can't imagine why Delilah would lie. Nathaniel had taken an odd sort of comfort in his hatred. It had given him purpose and fuel for his actions, had marked out the path of his future in certainty. His resentment had defined everything else: his disdain for the fools desecrating every inch of his family home, the Commander's occupation of lands that should rightfully be his, his seething hatred of the Taint that shackles him to the Wardens and their cause.

But Delilah had insisted.

It's a lot to think about. In any case, the uncomfortable specter of not knowing what to think or feel is enough to stay his hand and let the Commander live.

She twitches once more at the back of his neck and Nathaniel winces as claws dig in to his skin. He watches in cautious interest as she pads down his shoulder and patters down the length of his arm, leaping off at his wrist and landing on the floor. For a moment she's outlined in white, the shape stretching, growing, and then he blinks once and she's there, human and crouched on the floor, peering carefully over the edge of the crate.

Nathaniel puts a hand to her arm and pulls her away with a silent shake of his head. "Sorry," she whispers, very quietly. "I can't see that well as a mouse."

Nathaniel risks a quick glance above the crates. For now, the hold seems empty. "Best not to chance being caught. We seem to be safe, for the moment."

She gives a quick nod. "How long before the ship leaves? I lose track of time when I'm not human."

Nathaniel shrugs off the oddness of the statement and thinks, frowning. "Perhaps an hour and a half. Probably another hour or two before we're steadily underway. I think…" He goes silent at the sound of approaching voices and in a flash the Commander is a mouse again, huddling up at the bottom edge of a crate. Which is dangerous, he thinks, the crates could shift and crush her.

_Isn't that what you wanted? You wouldn't even be guilty, that way._

Nathaniel pushes the thought away, ignoring the mouse's nearly inaudible squeak of surprise as he picks it (_her_) back up and holds her in his palm, settling in for a long wait in the dark quiet of the belly of the ship.

-oOo-

Amaranthine smells like home.

It hadn't been something Therrin had noticed, not in human form, but with the altered senses of a mouse the scent of water and stone is unmistakable and everywhere. It isn't exactly the same—the saltwater gives the breeze a feeling of density the air over Lake Calenhad hadn't had—but nonetheless, the scent of Amaranthine is powerfully and inescapably reminiscent of the Circle.

Curled up against Nathaniel Howe's neck had probably been the least convenient place in the world to get terribly homesick for the Tower, but their plan had worked, just as she'd hoped.

Time is impossible to gauge, as a mouse. It feels like ages that she sits curled in his hand, feeling the slow thud of his pulse against her whiskers. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his skin is the only reference for time that she has, and it seems an eternity of waiting in a world made for giants. The crates are mountainous, the cracks in the wood floor of the deck perilous and wide, Nathaniel himself terrifyingly huge.

His scent is overwhelming. With her nose this close to his skin all she can smell is salt and leather and man, dizzyingly strong.

It feels like days before the ship lurches and begins to rock in earnest, a huge, rolling feeling that Therrin hopes signals their departure from the dock. It feels like ages later before she hears something like the shimmer-pull of a spell, the sensation of magic tugging at the very edge of her senses.

Nathaniel jerks to alertness as she leaps from his palm, shifting and stretching back into her human shape, the swaying feeling of the ship making her suddenly nauseated. Therrin gestures up at the ladder to the upper deck, increasingly aware of the presence of the whatever-it-is up there casting.

She doesn't want to begin a new spell, just in case whatever's up there can sense her and flee. This is just scouting, she thinks, this is not the right time for a full-blown assault on an unknown enemy.

She follows Nathaniel across the deck, and just as she's thinking that the rocking of the ship is worse than the carriage there comes a thrumming feeling, winding into her veins. Not strong, not as overwhelmingly strong as Uldred had been, but without a doubt blood magic.

A wide, thinly-cast spell. Therrin wonders for a moment if the entire ship is affected before realizing that Nathaniel has stopped. When he turns around, he is blank-eyed and expressionless and he nearly steps over her to go back and get a crate of cargo.

This is it, Therrin thinks, pleased and dismayed all at once. It's good to know that it's definitely a blood mage, but she can't leave Nathaniel under the spell, can't leave anyone like this.

So much for staying hidden.

The words of the Litany of Adralla come readily to her tongue, but there isn't any way to do it without opening herself up to being sensed. Therrin mutters the words and gives them a push of power, watching Nathaniel's eyes clear almost immediately and feeling a pull of destructive magic building up nearby in response, large and ferocious and seeking.

"We've got to get up there," she blurts, cutting off Nathaniel's confused question. "Now."

No point in hiding anymore, the other mage knows she's here. The sunlight seems very bright as the hatch flies open but Therrin barrels upwards anyway into the glare. She doesn't have to see the mage to feel him pouring his energy into an inferno large enough to consume the sails and sailors alike. The sounds of men shouting seem to come from every direction, panicked and confused and angry but she hardly hears them. The blood mage is still casting, and she casts in response, pulling all the power she can into a quickly-gathered blizzard. The ships seem to groan and at the sudden cold, the snow-flurries rushing past in a hissing blur as the beginnings of the other mage's fire are swallowed up in ice.

She barely has time to see Nathaniel draw his daggers before he's in action, sprinting to the narrow gap between ships and leaping across. He clears the distance easily and spins as he lands, blades out and glinting red in the light of sunset as a half-dozen of the other ship's sailors draw their blades and head his way.

_There's no way in Thedas I can make that jump_, Therrin thinks, stunned momentarily still.

Nathaniel knocks a man away with a quick thrust of his elbow, driving the dagger in his other hand up into the belly of another enemy. "Are you _coming?_" he shouts across the distance, impatient.

Therrin shouts back_, "No!"_

To jump would be suicide, to miss would mean a quick, cold death and an eternal rest at the dark bottom of the sea, but Nathaniel's outnumbered, and the pirates are closing in.

_I hate you, I hate you, why in the bleeding Fade did you have to jump over there like a lunatic?_  She casts about desperately for a moment, looking for something, anything to help. The only idea she has is crazy, but she loops the end of a coil of rope to her staff with shaking fingers, throwing it like a spear to the other ship and… it actually works. The staff catches on the railing of the other ship, wedged just firmly enough to hold.

_You're not actually doing this,_ she can almost hear Cullen say, utterly horrified, but shakes off the thought and casts her spell.

If it was hectic and dangerous before, it is a thousand times worse as a mouse. She scrambles across the length of rope, holding on tightly with every one of her claws and grateful for the tail to help with balance, very determinedly not looking down as she clambers across the gap overhanging the foamy, churning waves.

_I will not fall. I will not fall. You idiot bastard, I am going to kill you myself as soon as I'm not a mouse._

With the wood of the pirate ship's railing beneath her claws Therrin's near-overcome with relief, but there isn't time to dwell on it. The blood mage is casting again, a narrower, harder spell that makes her stagger as she shapeshifts. All around her the pirates sway, slowing in response to the force of magic.

The blood mage sweats with the effort of concentration, reaching one-handed for a vial of lyrium, and Therrin shakes her staff free of the rope and charges, swinging the staff in a wide arc and knocking the lyrium away, drawing forth a quick burst of flame that sets his robes and hair afire. He screams, a horrified sound, backing away blindly and overturning a rain-barrel; Therrin's lightning spell catches him undefended and standing in a small flood of water.

Death by electrocution isn't pretty.

When Therrin turns, Nathaniel's spattered in blood, seeming very tall and ferocious and looming over the final few sailors. She rallies a spell without releasing it, lighting crackling around her hand as she steps over beside him, watching the pirates' eyes widen. "In the name of the Grey Wardens," she says, breathing hard, "surrender or die."

And as one, the pirates throw down their blades, steel clattering like hail on the deck of the ship.


	11. Coming Back As We Are

So much for the hope of Anders and Oghren sleeping, Cullen thinks disgustedly, standing at the dock and staring out over the water with his arms crossed.

Anders had limped around for half an hour at the tavern, naked and loud and complaining bitterly over the loss of his staff and robes, cat perched on his shoulder and meowing as though to punctuate Anders' every grumble.

And then had come the talking. Shopping for a new robe with Anders had been bad enough; watching him haggle over the merchant's wares with one hand on the merchandise and the other holding a sheet around his waist had just been embarrassing, but once everyone had managed to get decently clothed again Cullen had headed for the docks, worried. It was only days ago Nathaniel had tried to kill Therrin. The thought of her undefended and alone with him is unsettling.

Cullen tries to wait patiently, staring out across the water and willing her ship to return, every second seeming to tick by slower and slower.

Anders, it turns out, doesn't care for lulls in the conversation. The more Cullen had grunted and ignored him the chattier Anders had become, prattling on cheerily as though he was testing new boundaries of annoyance.

Cullen is just about ready to push him into the sea. He hadn't promised he wouldn't. For all he knows, Anders is a champion swimmer.

"So what's it like, having a mage holding your leash?" Anders asks with apparent relish, grin wide and altogether too smug for Cullen's liking. "That's got to be a turnaround, eh?"

"No one's holding my leash," Cullen tells him, supremely irritated. "There is no leash."

"That's not what it looks like to me." Anders scratches his cat's ears.

"Therrin is the Warden-Commander," Cullen says darkly. "You're the one under her command, not me. If anyone's on a leash, it's you."

"Oho, yes. Perhaps. Better on a leash here than back at the Tower, though, right? Therrin's a damned sight better than Greagoir." Anders spits over the side of the dock. "At least she isn't a coldhearted tin-canned _bastard_."

A surge of feeling twists in Cullen's heart at Greagoir's name, all unexpected. He'd done so well in determining never to think of Greagoir again. The abrupt jumble of feelings at the thought of his father—and how quick the idea had taken hold, even poisoned as it was—stings, freshly-opened. Cullen tries to destroy the feeling, to trace down every tiny thread of it and tear it out of him at the roots, but it goes elusive, slithering back into the depths of his brain.

He frowns, something about the way Anders had said it making it sound like Anders didn't know. "Knight-Commander Greagoir is dead."

Anders' face seems to light up. "He is? Really?" He laughs, buoyant. "That's fantastic!"

Cullen scowls. It doesn't make sense. He can't expect everyone else to show the proper respect while he rails and rages in the privacy of his own head, but… still.

_You should have told me_, he thinks for the thousandth time, dead words for the specter of a dead man. And then to Therrin: _come back, and hurry. _It had been hard to hear it, hard to bear that she knew of his parents before he did, that she'd kept it from him. Even so, it's hard to summon any anger at her just now. It doesn't help that Anders' incessant chattering is driving Cullen to the edge of his patience with alarming speed.

"How'd he go?" Anders presses on, oblivious to Cullen's unease. "Get eaten by his beard? Always knew that thing looked carnivorous."

Cullen clenches his teeth in irritation and doesn't answer.

"Always wondered if he and Irving might've had a little bit of the hot-and-forbidden going on," Anders goes on blithely. "Would've been funny. Battle of the beards, as it were."

Cullen grimaces, repelled. "It… no."

"But I suppose Irving probably had something going on with Wynne, come to think." Anders nibbles at his thumbnail a moment, looking bored and unaware of Cullen's start of surprise. "He was forever dropping by at lessons when she was trying to teach. That man could hover right over your shoulder like nothing else." Anders gives a little grin, suddenly sly and digging an elbow into Cullen's side. "Not that I could really blame him, you know? For an old bird, Wynne's still got it." To illustrate his point he holds his hand chest-high, making kneading motions with his fingers. "If you know what I mean. I wouldn't kick her out of bed."

The idea of Greagoir had been bad enough, so thunderous and overpowering that Cullen forgets from time to time that Wynne is his mother, Wynne is the one who carried him and birthed him and gave him to the Chantry. The reminder jabs hard at some soft, vulnerable spot he'd thought well-hidden, well-armored; when Anders leans over the side of the dock to peer into the water Cullen gives into a flash of furious, helpless frustration and reaches out, a little nudge that pushes Anders off-balance into the sea.

The cat yowls in protest as it falls to the dock and Cullen watches with an almost-guilty sense of interest, a little thread of spite making Anders' spluttering all the more satisfying as he bobs back up above the waves and clings to the dock, spitting water and howling mad. "You _ass_."

Cullen only snorts, grimly pleased. It's a distraction, stupid as it is, and it makes it easy to let the thoughts of his parents recede into the background noise of his head. With an angry mage in front of him, he has to be alert. No time for thinking.

From his spot slumped on the dock with a skin of liquor in his hand, Oghren snorts. "Get a room, you two."

"Fuck you," Anders retorts, hauling himself out of the water and dripping copiously as he turns his glare on Cullen. "And you. We're supposed to hold hands and get along, you pea-brained _fool_."

And of course that's the moment Therrin trots up, breathless and flushed with Nathaniel at her shoulder. "What's going… Anders, what happened?"

Anders scowls at Cullen. "Your _insane boyfriend_ tried to kill me. You remember our conversation about having dangerous pets? It might be time to put him down, I think he's cracked."

Therrin glances from Anders to Cullen, eyes full of questions, and Cullen seizes the opportunity to divert the conversation. "Did you find the blood mage?"

Therrin hesitates. "We did, actually."

Cullen perks up at that, at the idea of finally having something useful to do.

"He's dead," Nathaniel says flatly. "She killed him."

Cullen's hope withers with a grumble. "I thought you were just scouting."

Nathaniel frowns. "So did I."

Therrin casts an irritated glance at Nathaniel. "You were the one who jumped over to the pirate ship first."

"After you'd blown our cover."

Cullen looks from Nathaniel to Therrin, alarmed. "Jumped over to a pirate ship?"

"I jumped," Nathaniel corrects. "She ran over as a mouse."

"A—"

"It doesn't matter," Therrin insists. "The pirates were just the beginning. We still have smugglers to deal with."

Anders bunches up his robe to his knees and wrings out the hem in a noisy rush of water, only belatedly squinting up at Therrin in skepticism. "A _mouse_?"

-oOo-

The smugglers aren't hard to find, and aren't any more difficult to eradicate.

The really tricky part, at least for Anders, had been slipping away from Cullen. The templar looks out over everything like a cranky old dog hearing cats in every bush. Anders had had to wait until the Wardens came to report back to the captain of the guard before he'd been able to sneak off into the alleyways of Amaranthine.

The_ Wardens_. It feels decidedly nice to have that title, even slapped on in a hurry as it was. Hello, I'm Anders, the_ Warden. _Let me buy you a drink, lovely lady, I'm the_ Warden_. Piss off, Rylock, you can't touch me because I'm the_ Warden._

He can almost imagine the look on Rylock's face. Nearly a pity he can't say it in person.

It almost makes up for the indignity of earlier, of finding his robes and staff in a merchant's stall, and of having to buy them back.

Amaranthine is more sprawling than he'd thought at first, and asking after an 'elven woman, blonde, about so tall' is surprisingly unrevealing. More than once he gets an amused snort and a _hey, you and me both, buddy_; none of it is helpful at all.

In the end, Namaya finds him.

"I should've known you'd turn up sooner or later," he hears flatly from behind him, making him jump. "Like a bad copper." And there she is, mouth tight with an unhappiness that's probably well-deserved, given their last meeting. It's a relief to see her at all, he tells himself, putting on his most charming smile. She could've just gone.

"Namaya."

"Don't you _Namaya_ me." Anders tries not to wince at the asperity in her tone, and when he follows her gaze over his shoulder he finds Therrin and the rest jogging over looking decidedly irritated and tries not to bolt.

What an utterly wretched day this is turning out to be. "Do you have news?" he asks quickly, just in case that idiot templar decides to drag him off again for another game of push-the-mage-in-the-ocean.

"The cache is here. In Amaranthine, in the warehouse by the front gate." Anders' spirits soar in an instant, a close-held hope exploding into joy. Namaya spares a glance for the approaching Wardens, looking cagey. "That's all I owe you. We're clear, now."

Anders nods obediently, mind racing. "Of course. Thank you."

Namaya gives a _hmph_ of dissatisfaction and brushes past him. "Don't let him sweet-talk you," she warns Therrin, glaring back for a moment at Anders. "He's good at that."

"I'll keep it in mind," Therrin murmurs, bemused. As soon as Namaya turns the corner and disappears from sight Therrin frowns, irritated and expectant in equal measure. "Anders?"

"Fancy meeting you here," he manages, trying to think fast. He doesn't know how much she heard and doesn't know if he'd be able to get away again to destroy his phylactery, especially not now.

Therrin doesn't look amused in the slightest. "What cache?"

_Damn_. "Caught that, did you?" he says a bit weakly.

Cullen is scowling. "Just answer the question."

It was going to be hard enough on its own, Anders thinks, despairing, but it's a thousand times worse with Cullen here. Bedding a mage or not bedding a mage there's no way in the world Cullen would ever let him get away with destroying his phylactery. "It's… sensitive," Anders hedges, trying desperately to think. "Mage business."

That gets Therrin's attention right quick. "What?"

"I'll tell you everything," Anders promises, seizing upon what looks to be his best chance. "But _just_ you. No one else would understand."

Come on, come on, let this work. Even if she doesn't come along, she might let him slip off on his own. Just a few minutes is all it would take. The thought of five minutes standing between himself and a lifetime of freedom makes him near-sick with worry.

Therrin glances over at Cullen, frowning. When she looks at him again she seems unsettled. "No."

Anders' hopes sink in a heartbeat.

"If you're dragging us all into trouble, I need to know what kind of trouble it is," Therrin says.

Anders casts about helplessly for something brilliant to say, some amazing turn of phrase that'll convince her to go along with everything, but comes up utterly short. _Please_, he thinks, _please let this work_, and with no other decent options at hand, Anders settles for the truth. "The cache is phylacteries," he admits, watching Cullen stiffen in alarm. But Therrin just looks expectant, and so he ignores Cullen and focuses on her. "During the Blight, the templars brought the phylacteries to Amaranthine for safekeeping. Namaya learned that my phylactery is here, still in storage." He takes a deep breath. "I want to find it."

"No." This from Cullen, outraged. "Absolutely not."

"They might have yours, too," Anders ventures, hoping that this works. "You should look while we have the chance."

For some reason Therrin doesn't look hopeful at the thought, but before Cullen can argue again Nathaniel cuts in, looking puzzled. "I don't understand. What's a phylactery?"

"A vial of blood," Therrin answers, tone as dry as though she's reciting facts off a page. "Taken—"

"Stolen," Anders interrupts.

"— from every mage who comes to the Circle Tower," she goes on as though he hadn't spoken. "So if they go apostate or become abominations they can be tracked—"

"Hunted," Anders interrupts again and this time she gives him an irritated glare. "Easy enough for _you_ to say tracked," he argues. "You've never been chased by templars. And what's to stop the Chantry declaring that Grey Warden mages are apostates, hmm? _Nothing_, and if they do, we'd be sitting ducks as long as they have our phylacteries." Therrin looks concerned, at that, brow furrowed in thought and not looking at him. But she isn't looking at Cullen, either, and that's a good sign, isn't it? That she's thinking about it? And not asking the templar for advice?

"You know," he continues, feeling out the words even as he says them and hoping this works, "if you find yours, you don't have to destroy it. You could keep it, maybe back at Vigil. As long as it's out of the Chantry's hands…"

Therrin mulls this over a moment. "And yours?"

"Oh, no." Anders can't help but laugh; the sound comes out nervous and shaky. "The second I get my hands on mine, it's as good as shattered. But if it makes you feel better to have your phylactery sitting on a shelf somewhere, it's your blood and your skin, not mine."

Nathaniel looks thoroughly confused. "Commander, I don't follow. Why wouldn't you want to destroy it, if it's something the Chantry could hunt you with?"

"Old habits," Anders supplies helpfully, earning another exasperated glance from Therrin.

"It's complicated," she corrects, taking a quick look to make sure there aren't any of Amaranthine's numerous templars in the crowd of people passing by. "This isn't the place to discuss this."

"Good. Can we just get on with it, then?" Anders presses. "We can chat on the way to the warehouse, duck in for a quick minute_, free ourselves forever_, and be done by dinnertime. I'll even buy."

"You don't have any money left," Nathaniel points out.

Anders shrugs. "Details. Come on. You _know_ I'm right." She still doesn't look convinced. "What do you think happens to the Wardens if we get taken? Hmm? You think the darkspawn are going to say 'oh, no, we can't keep attacking people while the Warden-Commander's in prison, we'll just wait until she gets back'?"

"Anders, stop." He stops. When Therrin looks back at him there's no friendly camaraderie between mages, no hey-we-grew-up-in-the-same-Circle sense of equality, just an order from a Commander to a subordinate. Anders' effusive little hope slinks back with a grumble.

"You've made your case," Therrin continues. "And I'll think about it. But you're not going to rush me into this."

_But the phylacteries might be gone tomorrow_, Anders almost protests, and thinks better of it. "Right. Good. Go think, then," he says, trying for more cheer than he really achieves.

_Think quickly_, he urges silently, walking back over to the reflecting pool and pulling a sleepy Ser Pounce-a-lot from his pocket, settling in to wait.

-oOo-

"You aren't seriously considering this," Cullen demands in a low voice, looking as concerned as he's ever been.

 Therrin shifts against the fence-rail and sighs, trying to determine what to say. "Yes. Maybe." How convenient it would be if the right answer would fall neatly into her lap, for once, just _once_, to have the right choice clearly marked out for the making. "He isn't wrong."

"He isn't _right_, either."

Therrin rubs at her temple, trying to organize the chaos of her thoughts.

"What's to stop him from taking off the moment he finds his phylactery?" Cullen goes on, pacing a short line in agitation, three steps and turn, and three steps and turn, again and again until Therrin wants to shout at him to stop. "For all we know he's a maleficar—"

"He isn't."

"Not _yet_."

"Cullen, for the—" Therrin bites off her retort, forcing her voice to quiet. "If Anders was going to take up blood magic, he'd have done it already."

Cullen glances at her sidelong. "You could have said that about Jowan, too."

The little thread of Therrin's patience snaps_, _an ugly resentment flooding through her thoughts. "Jowan has nothing to do with this."

"If you're talking about destroying your phylactery, I think it has a great deal to do with this," Cullen argues, obstinate.

Therrin glares at him. "I wasn't talking about destroying my phylactery. I was thinking about giving it to _you_."

Cullen stops pacing abruptly, for a moment shocked into complete, unshielded astonishment. "Oh."

Therrin throws up her hands in exasperation. "That makes it better, then? That I'd give it to you instead of destroying it completely?"

A look of consternation crosses his face and he doesn't answer. "What about Anders?"

"What about him? His phylactery, his blood." She sighs and plunges ahead to forestall the coming argument. "He isn't wrong. You know it. If the Chantry declares us apostates then we don't have any defense against them. And they could," she insists. "They already tried to get at me once, remember? To say I'd summoned a demon."

_Please, let him remember that. _She hasn't pressed. It didn't seem right to ask _is your memory still patchy?_ _Anything you need filled in?_

But Cullen's frowning. "I remember."

"It could happen again," Therrin insists, feeling tired. "You think they were up in arms about me marrying a bann? I can't imagine they're any happier about me being made an _arlessa_. It would be better for the Wardens to have the phylacteries out of Chantry control."

Cullen is silent, eyes averted. Therrin watches a dull flush of anger creep up his neck and she sighs. "Oghren? Nathaniel?"

From his spot on the fence nearby, Nathaniel frowns. "Why are you asking us?"

"Because you aren't biased and both of us are," Therrin explains, frustrated. "What do you think?"

Nathaniel ponders a moment, looking dubious. "If it's as great a danger as you say, I think you're better off without it."

Therrin turns to Oghren, who's slumped down, back to a fencepost, drinking deeply from a skin. "Oghren?"

He startles, peering up with barely-focused suspicion. "What? I didn't do nothin'."

"What do you think about the phylacteries?" Therrin repeats, suppressing a surge of irritation at his state. It isn't like him to get so drunk, not this early in the day.

"I didn't do it," he insists, scowling until his eyes squint nearly shut.

Therrin's mouth tightens in disappointment. "Never mind." She's got to get him sobered up at some point, and the sooner the better. He's barely going to be able to make the walk back to Vigil's Keep, at this rate. When she glances up, Cullen looks as disappointed as she feels, but she suspects it isn't Oghren he's disappointed in.

Taking the phylacteries feels like pushing Cullen painfully far, but still, it feels like the least terrible of her options. Therrin swallows around the tightness in her throat. Too much to hope for that he'd just trust her. "What do you think?"

Cullen's expression doesn't change. "I think you've already made up your mind."

Just that, and nothing more. Therrin tries to keep a rein on her resentment and fails. The whole thing feels so impossible, the system of templars and mages and phylacteries and the Chantry all tangled up and interwoven and so miserably flawed there seems to be no fixing it. It's not as though this is a perfect idea. It's not as though she'd seized on the chance to be untraceable forever.

Still. It's the only way forward that seems to make even a little sense.

"I guess I have," Therrin says at last with a sinking feeling. But waiting and wallowing never solved anything. Therrin pushes away from the fence, not looking anywhere near Cullen's direction. "Let's go."


	12. A First and Last Chance

The warehouse is deserted.

It's the last thing Therrin would have expected. Surely, she had thought, there would be a guard or a squad of templars at the door—_something—_but there isn't so much as a stray cat prowling around the alley. It takes her eyes several seconds to adjust when she pushes open the warehouse door, squinting into the darkness. The mineral smell of lyrium pervades the air, sharp in her nose and mingling with the heavy, musty scent of dust and old cloth, a few pieces of shabby furniture lining the walls and half-hidden in shadow. The whole place feels abandoned, eerie and forgotten and wrong.

Therrin drops a hand to her side out of habit but her fingers pass through empty air. Dog isn't there at her side to pat. Just then she wishes she hadn't told him to stay behind with Stephen. She wishes, too, that Cullen had come along. Even now, even as angry as he is… no. It's as much as she could have hoped for that he'd refused to take part at all instead of dragging her and Anders both by the ears to the Chantry and announcing their plan for all the templars to hear.

Unless he's telling them right now, she thinks, and hopes she's wrong.

Anders looks nervous as the door swings shut behind them, his eyes large and liquid in the semidarkness. "Do you see them?"

"No." Just a few empty crates, thick cobwebs in the corners, and a ramshackle armoire that looks like it may have been pushed down a flight of stairs twenty years ago. Nathaniel and Oghren bring up the rear, Nathaniel so silently she has to glance over her shoulder to make sure he's still there and Oghren clanking in his armor so loudly it's a wonder they can't hear him in Denerim. "I don't see anything yet." Therrin heads over to the armoire, just in case, but when she pulls the door open it nearly falls off, twisting on its single unbroken hinge and revealing only emptiness.

"I don't like this." Nathaniel shifts his weight from foot to foot, restless and rebalancing as though he expects the shadows to spring to life and attack. "Shouldn't there be guards?"

"It's not like they'd _expect_ any mages to come have a go at destroying their phylacteries," Anders argues. "Everyone who's got a phylactery is locked up at the Tower. To anyone else they're just bottles of blood. And there are more rooms, we can't just walk through the front door, take one look around and _give up_."

All of which sounds good enough in theory, but in practice, Therrin can't imagine the templars being so sloppy about something so important. "I don't…"

Anders isn't listening. He forges on ahead, a burst of light at the top of his staff casting beams of white that cut through the dimness and cast dark weird shadows that lurch every time he moves. "There's a whole other section back—"

Too late, Therrin feels a split-second surge of fear as shapes begin to emerge from the shadows, the shapes of templars, such a familiar outline that she would know it in her dreams and nightmares both. At the same time, the warehouse door creaks open, a brisk, noisy screech on protesting hinges, light pouring in around more templars silhouetted by the sunlight before the door closes behind them.

A trap.

Therrin's heart plummets.

At some unseen signal the templars draw their swords, the dull space of the warehouse ringing with the sound, and the thudding panic in Therrin's head drowns out any glimmer of surprise she might've felt at the sight of Ser Rylock striding into view, sword in hand and eyes shining with victory.

-oOo-

Rylock_, _Anders thinks miserably. Of course it would be Rylock. He should've known she would turn up again, should've known this was too good to be true all along. He wonders dully how much the templars had to pay Namaya to give him false information and send him running headlong into Rylock's neat little trap. Probably not much.

Therrin is arguing, which is just precious and about as futile as trying to empty the ocean with a thimble. "I told you," she lies through her teeth, doing a pretty good impression of Irving at his most irritated. "Ser Rylien told us about a den of maleficarum and the rumors led us here. You're impeding an official investigation and I ask again that you _leave_."

Rylock's smile is thin and utterly disbelieving. "I don't think so. I knew Anders would take the bait, Commander, but I didn't presume that you'd be so easily fooled as well." Rylock's eyes flick over to Anders and he forces himself not to recoil as her smile goes smug. "I should have known."

The door of the warehouse flies open and Cullen runs in, worried and looking about desperately before his eyes land on Rylock and Therrin, squared off. The templars nearest the door level their blades at him, startled, and one of them glances back to Rylock. "Commander?"

"He's one of them," Rylock snaps, sour and frowning. "He's with the Wardens." She looks unhappy at his arrival, which means… oh, damn it all, he thinks, he isn't actually glad to see _Cullen_, is he?

_Yes?_

_No_, he thinks, more practically._ For all you know he's just here to muck it all up._

"He's not a Warden," Therrin argues, putting a hand out to steady Oghren, who's silent but swaying in place.

"It doesn't matter," Rylock says, more self-satisfied by the second. "He's marked by association. His presence here proves his guilt, as does yours. But…" She eyes Anders, a meaningful look he doesn't like one bit. "I'm prepared to be merciful, Commander. I'm willing to ignore the interference of the Wardens in this matter."

Anders shares a glance with Therrin, and he's relieved to see she looks as cagey as he feels. "Oh?" Therrin asks without so much as a waver, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

_There you go, good girl, don't give anything away._

"Provided, of course," Rylock goes on implacably, "that you return Anders to our custody."

Anders' hopes fade to nothing_. _Of _course_ that's what she wants. Vengeance for escaping, for running away, for getting away with it and embarrassing her in front of the king. "You can't _do_ this," Anders protests hotly, bolstered by the reminder. "King Alistair allowed my conscription."

Ser Rylock is utterly unmoved. "The Chantry's authority supersedes the crown in this matter. You cannot hide within the Grey Warden ranks."

Anders gut twists and he has the feeling that his mouth has fallen open in shock. "Told the king as much yourself, did you?" he asks before he can stop himself, cursing inwardly the moment the words tumble from his lips_. For once, you idiot, keep your mouth shut. _

But Therrin hasn't answered, and that's bad. Anders has a sense of how fragile the whole Wardens-in-charge-of-Amaranthine thing is, more or less, and he isn't stupid. Surely she wouldn't… she wouldn't sell him to the templars, would she? For the good of the Wardens? She did it to Jowan, though, he remembers, feeling sick and hot at once. He'd heard about that little fiasco at Redcliffe, had steered well clear during the whole darkspawn business. But if she'd sent her dearest friend off to be executed, Anders doesn't have a chance.

"Be reasonable, Commander," Rylock says, ignoring Anders' outburst but not for a second looking away. "Anders is a criminal, untrustworthy, _murderous_. You cannot expect loyalty from him—"

"I don't think you have any idea what my expectations of Anders are," Therrin interrupts, tone growing colder by the syllable. "My expectation of you is that you prove yourself a law-abiding citizen and leave. Authority of the crown or no, the Chantry has no authority over any Grey Warden. Anders is under my command." Anders' heart swells, not with hope, not exactly, but with something like it, and it gets better when Therrin finishes, "And I have no intention of handing over one of my own."

At his shoulder, Nathaniel shifts, shoulders stretching under his armor and catching Anders' eye, a look that means _be ready_.

_Come on_, Anders thinks, _come on, talk us out of this. _He still doesn't know how Cullen fits into things and it bothers him. Is it six against five or seven against four? Six against four with one abstaining?

"I'm prepared to overlook the interference of the templars in this matter," Therrin continues, low and even. "Provided that you leave, immediately. You've broken into city property. As the Arlessa of Amaranthine I insist that you go or face arrest. Be on your way and this doesn't need to go any further."

A couple of the other templars glance at each other, faces helmed but postures radiating uncertainty. "I should have expected as much," Rylock says, so conversationally that Anders' guard goes up immediately. "From yet another mage." Her eyes go hard. "Anders _is_ coming with us."

And then there isn't time for a retort because Rylock strikes out in a flash of steel as the other templars charge and a double wave of will rolls over him like the surge of a cold sea, draining his magic and flinging him to the ground. It's a blessing, really, in all the chaos. In such tight quarters even a little distance helps, and anyway, they seem to have headed for Therrin. If she's the better target, all the more breathing room for him to cast with the little mana he has left, right?

Wrong.

With so many templars they bottleneck at the hallway but one gets through, a hulking brute of a thing that heads for him, sword raised. It's all Anders can do to muster enough ice to freeze him in place, an awkward and unbalanced position that sends the frozen templar toppling over. That isn't going to last long, Anders thinks desperately as the fighting lurches his way and he backs ever-farther into a corner, but there isn't any sort of plan or even anything coherent about the battle at all.

He catches a quick glimpse of Cullen charging in, sword in his hands but Anders still doesn't know what side he's on.

_This is really just not my day_, he thinks blankly as he tries to weave together a spell, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. The flicker of magic dies in his hands as one of the templars fires out the cleansing, banishing all the spells in the room and thawing out the templar who'd fallen. Nathaniel leaps close, twisting as he lands to try and catch the nearest templar across the throat with one of his blades but the templar armor is too thick and the gap between helm and neck too small. The dagger-edge scrapes and clatters against the metal, deflected and completely useless.

Oghren's axe is significantly more effective. Every deadly sweep is punctuated by a roar, the drunken little dwarf mowing through the templars with a will. Anders can't help but cheer him on mentally even as he ducks away from the edge of a blade. The scent of blood and lyrium hangs in the air, sickeningly thick. He can't see Therrin but he can feel her casting even as he begins to pull together another spell and she must have a ridiculous reserve of mana, he thinks with vague envy, to still be going, but even that dies with another wave of smite, the spell sputtering out like a candle being doused, the hiss of interrupted magic adding to the incredible noise of the battle_. _

Nathaniel's dagger bites deep across Rylock's unprotected throat as he catches her from behind, a fountain of blood pouring down the front of her armor and eyes wide and horrified as she falls, and just for a moment Anders is stunned still. He'd hated her, yes, and what she did and what she would've done to him, but she had been there for every one of his captures, had sat and pretended not to hear his attempts at bribes and more, had almost been able to ignore every innuendo he could think of to unsettle her on the boat rides across the lake.

They'd had a history, warped and wrong as it was; for one impossible moment as she dies she looks at him and he feels bizarrely _sorry_.

-oOo-

_This is hopeless_, Therrin thinks desperately, nearly drained and trying to dart out of the reach of the closest sword as Cullen steps into the place she'd vacated, blade raised.

She couldn't have said how grateful she is that he came, though he hadn't had the chance to say a word before everything went completely wrong and so she doesn't know what made him change his mind. But there isn't any way in the world to fight templars and especially not outnumbered and trapped with nowhere to hide. It's maddening to feel so useless, to scramble for every scrap of magic and watch it do so little.

But once Rylock falls the situation begins to feel more hopeful. She thinks the last few templars might run, but they only dig in more grimly. They're no match for Oghren, though. His axe swings in brutal sweeps, wide and heavy as he roars and charges. Even two-handed, Cullen's blade seems a thing of delicate finesse in comparison. Nathaniel edges around them, daggers ready but not finding an opening, a ferocious concentration on his face as he waits for a chance to strike. He gets his chance when Cullen lunges for the final templar and he dives, daggers seeking out the weak spots and driving in hard as Oghren stumbles Therrin's direction, falling off-balance mid-swing.

She doesn't have the chance to dodge. There's a jolt all the way up her arm as his axe cleaves her staff in two and doesn't stop, and no time at all before the shock of impact tears through her side and the world goes red with pain.

The floor seems to rush up very fast. The fall drives the breath from her body and she tries to curl around the gaping mess of her side, reeling in shock and trying to hold the edges, but no, she can't, it hurts too much to touch. The wound is wide and pouring blood, pooling into sticky heat beneath her on the floor. Pain seems to radiate outward, juddering through her nerves and building momentum, and a nauseous flood of panic rises at the back of her throat as she tries to gather together the focus for a healing spell and can't. It's been years since she's been too overwrought to cast, but the sickening certainty that she can't heal herself is more terrifying than anything she can remember. Something in her belly feels loose and a volcanic heat wells out through the wound; screaming makes it worse so she tries not to scream.

And then everyone is there, crowding around and kneeling on the floor, and Anders is scrambling. _For_ _lyrium_, she thinks, pain fogging her mind into near-delirium, _he can't have any mana left and if he doesn't have any mana he can't cast and if he can't cast I'm going to die._

Oghren tears off his helmet, eyes over-bright. Therrin tries to accuse, "You broke my staff," but it comes out wrong.

"Trust me," Anders manages, voice shaking in his throat and hands shaking on the lyrium bottle. "You've got bigger problems."

"_Hurry_." This from Cullen, low and urgent. She shivers, a violent, all-over shudder she can't suppress, and she reaches back in the direction of his voice because turning over seems like a bad idea. For a second she just feels metal and doesn't know if she's touched him or one of the dead templars, but his gauntleted fingers close over hers and it's more reassuring than it should be.

Still, the thought of unfinished business is distressing. "You have to—"

Cullen's fingers tighten and his voice is rough. "Be still. Would you _hurry?_"

This to Anders, apparently. Eye-to-eye with Anders' knee Therrin agrees, silently, a creeping numbness spreading up from her extremities, a feeling like staying out in the cold too long and having it seep into the seams of her boots, her gloves.

"I'm _trying_."

Therrin holds onto Cullen's hand as tightly as she can manage. "I thought you…" It's an effort to swallow. The words seem to lodge in her throat. "You weren't going to…"

"I followed," Cullen says, simply.

_To Amaranthine_, Therrin thinks, the memory drifting and thin_, or wherever else._

"Here." And Nathaniel is back, a hovering shadow, black on grey and holding bottles of lyrium in his hands. "There's more in the crates."

"Get it," Anders orders shortly, and through the sluggish fog of her brain Therrin thinks she's never heard him so terse before. But with the slow-slipping numbness comes a feeling of disconnection, a sensation of everything in her body contracting around the terrible wound and nothing else being real, not her hands, not her head, not anything.

It's almost peaceful, then, so singular a feeling as to make everything else seem distant, but then Anders begins to weave together his spell and pain crashes back in again, jagged and hard as her flesh begins to heal, skin and muscle and other things deeper inside her forced back together in lyrium-bright lines of magic. Therrin groans, tensing and trying to twist away from the feeling. Anders finishes one spell, snaps out, "Be _still_," and then gulps down lyrium and immediately begins casting another.

The second doesn't hurt, not as much, and it's easier not to move.

"There." Anders' hand is on her jaw, turning her face from side to side as he looks into her eyes. He seems as far away, wavering as though she's seeing him though water. It seems a funny thought, but when she tries to laugh every nerve in her abdomen fires with pain. "No, don't move."

Another spell, this one settling over her like a snowdrift. She shivers and curls in closer around herself, gritting her teeth and trying very hard not to cry.

"Therrin." She can barely turn; when she does she thinks Cullen's never looked so worried. He glances over at Anders. "Is she—?"

Anders sounds drained, pushed to the outermost brink of exhaustion and dumped there in a heap of bones. "She'll live. Unless you'd like to have a go at the other side," he bites out at Oghren. "See if you could actually _cut her in half._"

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did." Therrin presses her hands to her eyes, only belatedly realizing that they're bloody. She tries to rub it away and only manages to make her eyelashes sticky. "You did."

The silence that follows is hollow, the beginnings of an incredible headache beginning to creep in at the back of Therrin's skull as she plants her palms on the floor to push herself up. Cullen offers a hand and she takes it, and it's more his doing than hers that she's able to sit.

"Slowly," Anders cautions, voice sharp. "Too much and you'll just open everything back up again. Putting organs back together is tricky business and you've lost a _lot_ of blood."

Therrin nods once, distantly, eyeing the emptiness of the warehouse. "They're not here."

"The phylacteries?" Anders' gaze drops. "No."

At her side, Cullen is very still. Therrin tries to scrape together her thoughts, thready and fractured as they are. They can't just leave a half-dozen dead templars lying on the floor. "We have to get to the chantry." Every word feels like a tremendous effort.

Anders looks appalled. "What?"

It seems too much to explain. The headache flares along the top of her scalp, throbbing and sharp. "Let's go. To the chantry, and then straight back to Vigil," she orders.

Anders pales, horrified, but he isn't in any position to argue.

And of course the chantry is all the way on the other side of town, past gaping townspeople and up what feels like a thousand stairs. By the time they make it they have a pair of city guards who've fallen in line, flanking them on their way through the streets. She feels wrung out as a tattered dishrag as Cullen half-carries her, fretting silently every step of the way.

There are gasps as they push into the chantry, small noises of surprise and horror, and Therrin's aware of what a scene they must be making, yes, but that's sort of the point. "Oh, _Maker_," Ser Rylien exclaims, eyes wide. "My lady—Warden-Commander. What happened?"

"We were attacked," Therrin says flatly, which is true enough. "By rogue templars."

Ser Rylien's eyes get even wider.

The effort of walking has done terrible things to her side, and though the wound hasn't reopened it aches ferociously. Therrin pulls her gaping robe back up from where it hangs, cut open and heavy with drying blood, trying to breathe slowly and hoping that this works. "I need to know if Ser Rylock and her men were acting under orders," she goes on, letting the words hang, hoping the young templar catches their meaning.

She does, immediately. "No, Commander. No orders I heard. I… she _attacked_ you?"

"In the city," Therrin confirms, feeling very tired. "I wanted to know… to make sure… that they were acting of their own…" She can't think of the word.

"Their own volition," Nathaniel finishes.

"Yes."

Therrin almost feels sorry for Rylien then, young and new and uncertain as she is to be confronted with something like this. "No, Commander, I didn't… that is, I didn't hear of any orders… just the bit about the blood mage. Nothing about you at all, and nothing about attacking."

Therrin frowns as the edges of her vision go gray, a clammy feeling washing over her skin. She hangs on doggedly to the task at hand. "I wanted to be sure that there was no trouble between the Wardens and the Chantry."

Ser Rylien nods, comprehension taking only a second to fully dawn on her. _Smart girl_, Therrin thinks dully. This could have gone so much more badly. "No, Commander," Ser Rylien says, straightening and voice going solemn. "No trouble. The attack was regrettable. But unsanctioned." When she swallows her throat bobs up and down. "I take it she's… dead?"

"We defended ourselves," Therrin answers. "Yes. She and her men, near the city gates." Best not to mention the warehouse, perhaps.

Ser Rylien nods again, quick and formal. "I'll see to it, Commander."

"Thank you."

Therrin turns, hoping to get outside before her knees buckle entirely, but she hears Ser Rylien say, "Commander…"

When Therrin glances back, Ser Rylien looks hesitant, as though she wishes she hadn't spoken. "May the Maker watch over you," Rylien offers.

Therrin attempts a smile. "And you."

Back outside the air is heavy with the scent of the sea, the smells of water and stone and home, and… damn, she thinks, speaking of home. "You know how much I _hate_ stairs?" Therrin complains as they hit the first staircase leading away from the chantry, and then the grey at the edges of her vision roars back with alarming speed and before she can stop it the world goes dark.

-oOo-

When she wakes up again she's flat on her back, staring up at the stars.

"Oh good, you're awake," a cheerful, unfamiliar voice says from nearby. "I was hoping we'd run into you."

Therrin turns her head slowly, feeling more dead than alive, curiosity dulled to a flicker.

"We ran into some darkspawn, we did," the man continues. "And came to Amaranthine, thinking we'd tell the Warden-Commander, and here you are." As though it were the most fortuitous thing in the world to come across her like this, lying in what seems like… like an ox-cart, with sacks of grain mere inches away and a chicken clucking dire threats at her from a cage near her knee.

Therrin swallows, throat painfully dry. "Darkspawn?"

Something moves on the other side of the cart, a large figure in the darkness. It takes her a moment to make out that it's Cullen, standing guard, and relief catches in her chest at the sight of him.

"Yes indeed," the man goes on. "Big crack in the ground like an egg, and darkspawn came running out of it, and—"

Therrin frowns, trying very hard to think, but her brain doesn't seem to be cooperating. "Darkspawn came out of an egg?" The chicken in the cage clucks and ruffles its feathers.

"Er, no. Crack in the ground. _Like_ an egg. Look, I can see you're not all… er… well. I gave all the information to your dwarf friend; he should be able to tell you later when you're not… er…"

"Give it to someone else," Therrin says, voice cracking. "Someone who can remember it in the morning." She hears the clank of metal that's probably Oghren walking off, but just then she doesn't care.

"Uh… alright," the stranger says, recovering. "Your… ah, your friend here, will that do?"

"Fine," Therrin manages, weariness dragging at her eyelids. "That's fine." The sounds of the world seem to pour away, muted and blurred, and between one breath and the next she gives back over to sleep.


	13. The Question

_The Wardens have turned everything upside down_, Varel thinks, wondering when it all became such a circus.

The Orlesian Wardens were at least orderly, and experienced, and had their own ways and means which included him not at all. The Orlesian Wardens had chattered away in their own language and had made decisions Varel was excluded from and had irked him every waking moment of the days, a constant low-level irritation like a pebble in his boot he could never quite be rid of.

But at least the Orlesian Wardens wouldn't have brought the arlessa of Amaranthine back to Vigil's Keep in the back of an oxcart.

He had been afraid for a moment that she'd actually died (and Maker help him, what a nightmare that would have been), but the rest of them had looked more like shamefaced boys who had been on the receiving end of a good drubbing instead of Wardens mourning a death. It had been a small mercy. As it is, it doesn't look like she'll be up to fighting again soon_._

At least the pirates are gone. It had been sobering to hear the account of the fighting, patched together like a tattered quilt from the accounts of Anders and Cullen and Howe.

From what Varel understands of the events at Amaranthine, he doesn't know that Oghren's report would have been reliable. As it is, Oghren seems determined to drink himself into oblivion in the darkest, most remote reaches of the keep's basements. Varel hasn't quite determined if he should ask the Commander about a suitable punishment for Oghren's actions, and in the meantime he'd settled for keeping the whole affair quiet, posting a handful of guards to keep an eye on him and to take action if there's any trouble.

Certainly the Commander doesn't ask after him.

Granted, she has larger concerns, foremost among them that the lords of Amaranthine are coming to swear fealty and she can hardly walk from one side of her room to the other yet without swearing in pain. With a stack of papers balanced on one knee and a feeling in his head of time to get organized quickly running out, Varel tries to collect his thoughts. "I suppose if we had to, we could shelter them all for a day. Perhaps two, if it becomes necessary. I doubt anyone will want to be away from their lands for much longer, given the darkspawn situation."

Therrin's mouth twists, her hands picking at the coverlet. In the high bed, she looks very young. "I don't suppose we could just entertain them in here."

Varel raises an eyebrow. "I wouldn't recommend it."

Therrin casts a quick, amused glance over to Cullen, sitting on the other side of the bed. "No, I suppose not."

"In ordinary circumstances, you'd already be familiar with those who'll be coming for the ceremony. As it is I've compiled some notes for you to go over when you have a free moment." He hands over the stacked papers and she begins scanning them immediately. Just one more difference, he notes, the careful habit of years of circumspection under Rendon Howe too deeply ingrained to give up quickly. Every time he makes a suggestion she takes it, every time he has a word of advice she listens.

It's damned irregular.

Moreover, it's a poor habit for a newly-minted noble to develop. Though he can't help feel a bit gratified at the idea that his ideas will be put to use, an arlessa who takes heed of everything she's told is a tool just waiting to be used.

"Eddelbreck," Therrin reads. "I've heard that name in the city."

Varel shifts in his chair, not entirely sure how to approach the subject nagging at him. Cullen had proven a willing enough lad, fighting and helping with the restoration as needed and certainly they seem fond enough of one another, but Varel still isn't quite certain how the situation lies between them. "He's a popular figure in the arling. Widowed some years back, both children died in the Blight. I heard a rumor he might seek a private audience with you, most likely after the ceremony."

Therrin doesn't stop skimming. "Oh? Why?"

Varel only hesitates a moment. "You've come into a position of considerable influence. There are those who'll seek alliances with you. Permanent ones."

She does stop reading then, looking at Varel as though he's grown antennae. "Alliances."

"Through marriage," Varel clarifies, and then at her startled expression, "you might consider the option. A permanent alliance with one of the local lords could aid you a great deal. Marrying someone already popular with the people—like Eddelbreck—could help stabilize Amaranthine and further legitimize your place here."

Therrin seems taken aback, quiet and looking as though she's thinking rapidly. At the other side of the bed, Cullen goes completely still. "I can't just marry someone. I don't even know any of them," Therrin protests at last. And then, stronger, "There's something going on with the darkspawn. That has to take priority."

"Of course, Commander," Varel says automatically. "But once the situation is resolved—"

"I might not live long enough to see it resolved."

Varel leans back in his chair, a small retreat to hide his surprise. "Commander. If I may speak plainly…" She nods. Varel tries to scrape his thoughts together, feeling decidedly off-balance and trying to tread carefully. "Uncertain future or not, you _are_ the only arlessa we have. Rendon Howe did not leave behind the most unified of arlings. Much depends on your ability to overcome the divisions in the arling and recreate alliances."

The legs of Cullen's chair scrape quietly across the stone as he pushes back, rising to his feet. "Excuse me." He doesn't say another word, rounding the bed and crossing the room with his eyes averted. The door closes behind him with a firm, hollow sound.

Therrin lets out a slow breath, looking pale and uneasy.

_Not quite _that_ casual, then_, Varel thinks with a short, sharp pang. "Commander, if I've misspoken…" _You've every right to tell me to sod off, _he finishes silently, but she shakes her head once, a small gesture, pulling the coverlet in closer around herself and seeming lost in thought. "Even if you did choose to pursue this, a marriage for political expediency needn't change anything. Were you to marry a lesser noble, you'd have the advantage. You could keep a companion. If you chose."

Therrin considers this for what seems like a very long time, silent, a hand over her mouth and eyes narrowed in thought. Varel tries to be patient, wondering if he should've kept his peace and wondering if he ought to think of something else to say. If he'd spoken like this to Howe there would have been a reprimand by now, at least. All this quiet is uncharted territory.

Therrin shakes out of her reverie, a sharp look to her like new steel, in the space of a moment seeming less uncertain than Varel feels. "I don't suppose you know where I could find a staff?"

-oOo-

Cullen doesn't have much to pack. It seems nearly insult to injury at the thought of leaving and being erased so easily, to have so few traces of himself to leave behind. For a moment he's grateful that he hadn't had the chance to move into Therrin's room, not properly. Having to wait to retrieve his things would be even more painful than it already is. The big armoire doesn't look that much emptier without his few belongings in it, clothes rolled into bundles on the bed, leather pack open and ready.

He considers his few effects, hesitating.

The flurry of contradictory thoughts breaks apart in his mind, emotions tumbling out of their tight, chaotic spin. Warring impulses to leave and stay make any sort of rationality a distant prospect and Cullen looks into the empty pack in a blank sort of despair, trying to think.

"What are you doing?"

Cullen whirls, startled, to find Therrin leaning on the doorframe, alarmed and steadying herself on a strange-looking staff. "I…"

Therrin spots the pack on the bed, and the clothes rolled up beside it. "Are you leaving?"

She looks baffled, a peculiar mixture of hurt and confusion that gives a sharp tug at something inside of him, unraveling Cullen's determination. "Yes," he says, with no particular conviction. "I think so."

 Therrin seems to slump. "Why?"

Cullen takes up a pair of socks and drops them back into their pile, trying to get his head in order. "I think you have more responsibilities than I had thought about," he confesses.

"Cullen—"

"You're a noblewoman, now," he says, trying to push back the sick raw feeling of it. "I didn't think about you having to make alliances." The word feels barbed on his tongue. "To get married."

"I'm not getting married," she says, staff thunking on the floor as she comes closer. "You really expect me to marry some nobleman I've never set eyes on? For what?"

"For Amaranthine," Cullen reminds her, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed and glancing over. She looks tired, mouth pressed into a tight line of pain and fingers curled hard around the staff. "You're not supposed to be up," he says.

"I know." The words come out a bit strained. "Look, this is insane. Just giving me a title doesn't make me a noble."

Cullen hesitates. "I think it does, actually."

Therrin gives him an impatient look. "Not a real one. Not like the other ones."

"But—"

"It doesn't matter," she interrupts. "I'm a mage. Not a noble. No title is going to change what's already there," she goes on, breath hitching in apparent discomfort as she crosses the space and sits on the bed beside him. "I'm doing the best… _ow_… the best I can," she insists, looking at him frankly. "But I'm not cut out for this and you know it."

This close, he thinks she looks even wearier, hair as wild as though it's attempting an escape and smudges of purple under her eyes. The thought of his own readiness to leave her to it, alone, makes a small, quiet guilt twist in his mind. "Are you all right?"

Therrin gives a short laugh and winces immediately, holding her side. "I walked halfway across the keep to get to you and stairs really aren't my friends right now." Her expression softens and she says, "I'm fine. I had to know that you were." She glances over her shoulder at the empty pack. "I didn't think you'd actually go."

Cullen swallows, painful around the dryness of his throat. "I thought perhaps I shouldn't stay. That your life had gone a direction mine couldn't follow."

Therrin leans in with a sigh, slipping her arm in beside his and lacing their fingers together. "I'm not about to run off and marry for the sake of politics," Therrin retorts, running her thumb idly over his knuckles. "If I cared about politics at all I would've told Alistair to make me an advisor or something, or I wouldn't have broken it off with Teagan or… well, something. Anything but go back to the Tower. And you."

And that feels true, a knowing beyond reason, soothing his jangled nerves, but… "What about Amaranthine?"

"What about it?" Therrin looks momentarily rebellious. "I could wear fake ears and kaddis and bark my head off and it wouldn't make me a mabari. It's the same principle." Cullen blinks twice, distracted by the bizarre mental image, but before he can speak Therrin shakes her head. "The whole idea of marrying some stranger—to make people like me more, I suppose, people I've never met—that's not my idea of making anything easier. It'll make things easier when the darkspawn are gone. These people would never have had me if Alistair hadn't given the order. I'm not about to get sucked into the whole thing and play by their rules. They knew what I was when they got me," she finishes, sounding disgruntled.

Something in Cullen's chest eases. "A mage?"

Therrin smiles, at that. "I was going to say stubborn, but mage works. I can't believe you really thought I'd do it."

Cullen shifts, holding her hand in both his own. Her fingers feel cold. "I thought you'd do what you had to."

She gives a low snort. "There are different kinds of doing what I have to, and this isn't one of them." She frowns at the floor, and kicks her dangling feet. "I almost wish this _was_ in the Grey Warden handbook. What to do when you get made a noble and you'd rather hide under a rock."

Cullen looks over, uncertain if she's joking. "They have a handbook?"

"I didn't make it all the way through, though, remember?" Therrin says, but her expression of amusement fades when she looks at him.

He tries to remember and draws a blank, alarm creeping like frost up through his body at the formless void in his mind where he thinks a memory ought to be. "No," he answers, throat tight. "Sorry."

Therrin hesitates. "It was on the road, just before we got to Lothering," she says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world instead of where their lives almost fell apart. "It wasn't too important, really. You asked me if it was against the rules of the Order to have outside relationships. I told you it didn't matter what waited for me in Amaranthine. I wasn't giving up."

Not a word of it sounds familiar. "On what?"

She looks surprised. "On you." At his expression she looks away and laughs. "Sorry. I think you're stuck with me."

It sends relief flooding through him in a wave, the vestiges of despair fading away to nothing. "Am I?"

Her smile is crooked. "Unless you've got a better idea."

_You could always marry _me, he thinks, and… oh. The idea isn't new, not exactly, but it leaves him awestruck just the same, an insistent press of newfound understanding that's buoyant and bright as a rising sun. The force of the thought thrums though him like an electric current. Before—at the Tower—they couldn't. And then he was unwell and almost lost everything and he feels like he's hardly had time to think at all since then but now… now, they can.

He opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out, so he clears his throat and shifts on the bed to better face her and tries again. "I know that… that the darkspawn are still—" _Nothing says love like darkspawn, you idiot. _Cullen winces. "Um."

Therrin is looking at him oddly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he manages, "I'm fine." Except that his heart's gone racing and he can't think and all the words in his head seem to have taken flight like so many birds. "I love you," he confesses, unsteady but driven on by an insistent, clamoring hope. "You know that."

Therrin leans away a fraction. "Even after the disaster with the phylacteries?" she asks, voice neutral.

Cullen winces again, because he'd really rather not think about that, particularly not now, but he also doesn't think he could get away with saying _please just listen, would you? I'm trying to propose. _"Yes," he admits. "Even after that."

Just _ask_. Cullen swallows hard, mouth dry and lips parched and his heart hammering out a frenzied pace in his chest. "Would you want to get—"

"_There_ you are." Anders jerks to a halt in front of the doorway, annoyed and a little disheveled and for a moment Cullen is too surprised to do anything but sit there, which is time aplenty for Anders to storm into the room in high dudgeon. "You think I patch you up for fun, do you? 'Oh, sure, just let me skip through the Vigil and open up my insides and ignore every word Anders said about not being an idiot and staying in bed, there's nothing complicated about putting a liver back together for the third time, no!'"

Dog appears at the doorway, ears flattened and looking worried. With all his senses still reeling from the rapid change in situation Cullen thinks he looks guilty.

"I'll put a bell on you, don't think I won't," Anders goes on, supremely irritated and hauling Therrin to her feet, weaving magic around her in trails of light. "You'll be another day out for this, at least. Bed. Now."

Therrin huffs. "Anders—"

"Now."

Dog creeps to Therrin's side, whining; with a narrow-eyed look of annoyance she glares at Anders and leans on the odd-looking staff when he thrusts it her direction. "You're worse than Wy—"

"Wynne?" Anders interrupts, near-crackling with ire and oblivious to Cullen's start of surprise. "I heard about the whole Blight business. I bet you were never this big of an idiot for _her_." He jabs a finger upwards, pointing adamantly toward the upper levels of the keep. "Bed. And after this you can put your _own_ insides back together."

With a last irritated look, Therrin turns and hobbles off, muttering darkly.

"And _you_," Anders says, pointing an accusing finger at Cullen and looking tetchy. "This is your fault."

Cullen blinks. "What?" But Anders is already leaving, stalking out and slamming the door closed behind him. Suddenly alone in the empty bedroom, Cullen sighs, slumps over, and buries his head in his hands.

-oOo-

Fergus Cousland has seen his fair share of stupidity carried out in the name of politics, but the king's decision to give Amaranthine to the Warden-Commander really sort of takes the cake. It had been bad enough to hand it over to the Wardens in general—Fergus could have told Alistair that putting Orlesians in charge of an arling was the political equivalent of gulping poison, cutting his own throat, and then falling on his sword for good measure—but to toss a title at a mage who has about as much experience with politics as a duck has experience with astronomy just screams of idiocy.

It had only been a couple weeks of waiting in the vast, dark silences of Highever Castle before Fergus had set out to Amaranthine himself to see the new arlessa for himself. He'd been to Vigil's Keep before, of course—though it seems like a whole other life ago, in a far easier time—and while the Keep itself doesn't seem to have changed much for having changed hands three times in less than a year, inside the courtyard is an entirely different matter.

He hadn't brought many men with him but thinks blankly as he surveys the space that it wouldn't have mattered if he'd brought an army. No amount of backup would have prepared him for the sight of a woman in a blood-spattered nightgown holding a dead chicken, arguing with a tall man in armor while a mabari and a young boy in nothing but smallclothes chase after an orange streak that might be a cat, a nearby man in a dress breaking into a run at the sight of them, and a darkish figure… is that a _Howe?_

Fergus blinks, sure his eyes are playing tricks on him. By the time he opens his eyes again the figure is gone, and a side-door opens and a familiar-looking man emerges. His gaze falls on Fergus and his eyes widen, and he glances back at the people in the courtyard with a brief look of despair before he walks quickly to the woman, says something too low to hear, and guides her over with a rather threadbare dignity.

"Commander," the man says, formal tone completely at odds with everything else about the Keep. "This is Teyrn Fergus Cousland."

The woman has chicken feathers in her hair, bits of down like fluffy snowflakes. The silence seems to hang. "Cousland," she repeats at last, tonelessly.

The man coughs. "The queen's brother, Commander."

This, the arlessa of Amaranthine…? If Fergus didn't know better it would sound like the beginning of a bad joke.

The arlessa regards him with a flat expression, glancing down at the scratches on her arms, her bloody nightgown, before blowing away one of the feathers that's fallen into her eyes. "The queen's brother," she repeats, voice dull. "Of course you are."

The other man clears his throat.

"I mean," the arlessa corrects, sighing, "Greetings, Teyrn Cousland. Welcome to Vigil's Keep."


	14. All Cloak, No Dagger

Therrin had been embarrassed before, certainly. A Circle mage plunked down unceremoniously into the jumbled mess of Fereldan culture is bound to make a mistake or five, and though Duncan had never outright laughed at her (or, indeed, at anything) she'd had the suspicion several times that if he hadn't been in need of new Wardens he'd have sighed and sent her straight back to the Tower, if only for the sake of his own dignity.

_Dignity_, she thinks, disgruntled. _I remember dignity._

Every scrap of it she might once have possessed seems to have evaporated into a boiling sort of mortification that makes her wish she could dissolve into liquid and creep out through the cracks in the floor.

Cullen, for his part, is not laughing, not at all. Of course, Cullen's not-laughing is different from most people's not-laughing, in that Cullen was stationed at the Tower for ages and knows how to have a good laugh while giving almost no outward sign of it. If Therrin hadn't been living in that same Tower with him so long, she might not have known he was having a good laugh at _her_.

"You think this is funny, don't you?" she accuses, holding on to him with one arm as he helps her back up the stairs to her room.

"No," Cullen says dutifully.

"I just met the teyrn of Highever in my nightgown," she continues, still accusing, though it's far from Cullen's fault.

"True."

"I have to…" Therrin grasps helplessly for words, all grasp of control or poise utterly absent. "To…"

Cullen snorts. "Come on."

Up in their bedroom the situation doesn't look any more dignified. "Ow," Therrin complains, settling into a chair.

"I told you you shouldn't be out in the courtyard," Cullen reminds her, and then stops, an expression of disgust on his face. "Why are you still holding on to that thing?"

Therrin looks down at the dead chicken in her hand, a floppy, half-featherless thing still oozing blood and looking just about as pathetic as she feels. "I don't know."

Cullen grimaces and takes it, and then after a moment's glance around the room doesn't reveal anything like convenient disposal he crosses to the window, undoes the latch, and tosses it outside. "There had to be—" he begins, and stops as from a few stories below comes a clamor, and shouting, and the metallic sounds that might be expected from a dozen armed men thrown into confusion at the sight of meteoric poultry falling into their midst.

Cullen closes the window very quickly.

Therrin tries not to laugh, because laughing makes her side hurt and rattles a stubborn ache through her whole body, but even with a hand over her mouth it's impossible. The sound leaks out before she can stop it. The absurdity of it all tips some unseen balance and even Cullen can't keep a straight face, holding on to the windowsill with one hand. At the sound of Therrin's poorly-muffled laughter he turns his incredulous look on her. "I don't suppose there's a good explanation for all that," he manages.

Therrin tries to think of where to start. With Stephen declaring that he'd only wear mage robes? With Ser Pounce-a-lot mauling the chicken? With all of them trying to put the poor thing out of its misery as it had run around the…

"No," she admits at last, a bit faintly. "Not really."

Cullen slumps onto the bed with a snort, shaking with quiet, barely-contained laughter that just fuels Therrin's own amusement and makes it worse.

"It's not funny," Therrin protests, still trying to suppress her own giggles. "I'm sure the teyrn already thought I was incompetent. I can't imagine the sight of all _that_ did anything to change his mind."

Cullen only doubles over, shaking with silent laughter.

"You're supposed to help me get dressed," Therrin accuses, making no move to get up. "I have to get back down there and be dignified and you're supposed to _help_ me." He doesn't stop laughing. Therrin casts about a moment but there aren't any pillows close enough to throw, and anyway she isn't exactly angry. Just… "Have I mentioned that I don't think I'm cut out for this politics thing?" she asks, wishing she could start the whole day over and that just once something could go exactly the way it was supposed to.

-oOo-

All things considered, Cullen thinks, the fealty ceremonies seem to have gone exactly the way they were supposed to. He hadn't ever been to a nobles' party before but this one seems to be going remarkably well, as far as he can determine. After the solemnity of earlier as each of the lords and ladies of the arling came forward to swear their oaths the mood seems to have lightened, as though everyone's glad to have a reason to mill about and enjoy themselves.

"I think that went well, don't you?" Cullen asks Varel, as both of them keep their eyes on the room at large.

"It's not quite over yet," Varel answers, the littlest bit wry and his at-attention posture not easing. "But yes. So far, the evening seems to be going well." He glances sidelong at Cullen, the humor not wavering but a certain accusation in his gaze. "You owe me a new squad of recruits, I'll have you know."

Cullen frowns. "Excuse me?"

The corner of Varel's mouth quirks upwards, just for a moment. "I'd just managed to scrape a dozen of them together. Local boys. Some of them hardly knew which end of a sword to hold. The lot of them were damned wound-up about working under a mage as it was. Nervy lads, very nervy. So when a dead chicken dropped down on them out of a clear blue sky…" He raises an eyebrow. "I don't have to tell you what a disaster that was."

"I…"

Varel doesn't quite grin at Cullen's expression.

"Sorry," Cullen manages, shuffling in place.

Varel gives a half-smile, a roguish expression damped down in an instant. "No harm done. I sent them to the city, instead. Let Constable Aidan deal with them." The amusement drains from his expression. "From what I understand he'll take all the help he can get, competent or not."

Cullen frowns. "I did notice the guard seemed a bit thin in the city. I thought the templars might have been making up the difference."

"No. Not really. They come and go too much for that." He glances over, a measuring cast to the look. "I understand you were a templar yourself, once."

Funny that the thought would be such a melancholy one, with so much that's happened in such a short span of time. It seems at once like it was another lifetime ago and as though it is still lingering on his skin. "Yes. I was." Cullen takes a sip of his drink to have something to do, holding the mouthful of soft-tasting wine on his tongue before swallowing it down. "I was the Knight-Commander at the Circle Tower, actually."

Varel's eyebrows shoot up. "Were you?"

Cullen nods. "Only for the last months, since…" He hesitates a moment before finishing, "since the previous Knight-Commander passed away, last winter. But yes."

Varel seems to contemplate that in silence.

None of it was preparation for this, though, Cullen thinks, looking around the room. There weren't parties like this at the Tower, shifting, multicolored masses of people and fine clothing and not half enough guards. Cullen much prefers the simplicity of the ceremony they'd held earlier in the day with just a handful of them in the hall as Therrin had sworn fealty to the teyrn, and all of them quiet and sober and serious.

"Mhairi had mentioned you'd quite a bit of skill as a fighter," Varel says. "She was quite impressed with you, as I recall."

Cullen glances over. "I was a templar. We start training young."

"Of course. But there are a set of rather particular skills that go with the job, I'd imagine. Organization. Preparation. Discipline." Varel gives him another sidelong look, weighing. "Would you agree?"

Cullen has the feeling Varel's getting at something and he isn't quite sure what. "In general, yes," Cullen says finally. "Why?"

Varel seems pleased, and Cullen doesn't know whether that's a good sign or a bad one. "I was hoping you'd say that." He smiles before looking back out over the assembled nobles like a watchful hawk. "You've heard how many men we lost when the darkspawn attacked," he says, quietly enough Cullen leans in to hear. "The state of affairs is bad all over the arling. The city's been desperately shorthanded since the Blight." He considers a moment. "We don't have enough men. And of the men we have, too few of them have had time for any proper training. Farmhands, a lot of them, given armor and a sword and told to go look like they've got some authority. If Amaranthine were actually to come under attack, the city would be in desperate straits." He glances back at Cullen. "I don't know if the Commander has you set to any task, but if you'd be willing to help—"

"Yes," Cullen says immediately, seizing on the promise of using his skills. "I would. Of course."

Varel nods, looking satisfied. "Can we bring in recruits to you, then? Garevel's got his hands full as it is and I'm in it up to my neck, but if you'd show them how not to kill themselves on their own blades and the bare basics of fighting, Amaranthine would owe you a debt. And not just the city; soldiers are needed all over the arling. Most anyone we had with any skills was part of the king's army and got recalled to Denerim after the Blight."

Cullen nods, standing straighter. "I'll do it."

Varel grins, a quick, pleased expression. "Good man." His grin fades as he turns back to the crowd. "And there's Eddelbreck."

"I'll talk to him," Cullen says, surprising himself a moment. But it makes sense, he thinks as he shoulders his way carefully through the crowd. Eddelbreck can't be disappointed at Therrin turning him down if he never gets the chance to ask in the first place, can he?

And in a small, stubborn corner of Cullen's mind, he thinks that when it comes to proposing he's already been second in line to Teagan. He's going to figure out a way to ask, and soon, and he's determined not to let anyone else do it before he can figure out how.

-oOo-

Nathaniel hates parties.

Vigil's Keep had never been much place for revelry even when his father was alive, but the frivolity of the lesser nobles carrying on in his father's absence seems a mockery. He doesn't much feel like celebrating in the first place. It only makes it worse to have Anders meander his direction from time to time, beaming and flushed with drink and insisting that he mingle.

Nathaniel hates mingling, too.

His plan had been simple enough, as it was: lurk in the shadows of the great hall and stay as far out of sight as possible, and try not to look up at the painting of his mother because the eyes seem to follow his every move and he can't help but suspect that she looks disappointed. "I'm not mingling for you, either," he mutters under his breath, filial obligation be damned.

"I'm sorry, what?" In all the commotion he hadn't heard the Commander come over. He jumps in surprise and his hands go for his daggers out of instinct. She watches the motion, bemused.

"I… was talking to my mother," he explains, waving a hand at the painting.

"I see," the Commander says carefully. "Did she talk back?"

Nathaniel scowls, wary that she's making fun of him. "Of course not. It's a painting."

"Of course," she echoes, a bit doubtfully, before seeming to shake herself. "I wanted to speak with you. Not here. Do you have a minute?"

"And miss standing around hearing how _glad_ everyone is that my father's dead?" Nathaniel asks, the words bitter on his tongue. "How could I tear myself away?"

The Commander doesn't look impressed, and when she turns and walks away Nathaniel follows, keeping his eyes on the back of her head and studiously trying to avoid attracting any attention. Outside the great hall the sound of the crowd seems to die off abruptly, fading quickly into the growing distance as they stalk off for… the kitchens?

The kitchens. Nathaniel bites back on a moment's skepticism as the Commander pushes in. As soon as Nathaniel and the Commander are ensconced at a little table at the very edge of the room a cook brings over a heaping tray of bread and cheese and cold meats. Nathaniel's stomach growls, hunger going demanding now that he's not so wary of being cornered by Esmerelle or Guy or Maker forbid, by Cousland. "Well," the Commander says, expectant and gesturing at the food, already cutting off a hunk of bread for herself. "Go on."

Nathaniel reaches for a knife, uncertain and wondering what all this is about, but the Commander seems more inclined to eat than explain, at least at first. "I'm promoting you, by the way," she says once they've torn through half the tray's contents, at the precise moment Nathaniel can't answer because his cheeks are stuffed with cheese.

It seems a very long time before he can swallow, not bothering to conceal his surprise. "Promoting me?"

"Yes." She glances up a moment before ripping off a small chunk of bread. "I'm making you my second-in-command."

Nathaniel holds himself very still, wondering what sort of trick this is. Surely there's some sort of strategy here, some devious web of a plan he's damned well not going to let himself get tangled up in. "Why?"

"Necessity." She leans in. "You know as well as I do there's something going on with the darkspawn. If something happens to me, you've got to make sure they're stopped. Can you see Anders doing it?" she demands, cutting off his ready protest. "Or Oghren? Keeping the Wardens together and doing whatever it takes to stop the darkspawn?"

Nathaniel can't argue that. Still. "Commander—"

"There isn't anyone else," she interrupts, voice low and insistent. "We're too few as it is and this is dangerous work. If I die, you're the next Warden-Commander."

"You think that I'd stay?" Nathaniel argues, finding his tongue at last.

"I think you'll do what you have to."

His thoughts won't seem to settle, the chaos in his mind impossible to clear through.

"I think that of any of the Wardens, you've got the most stake in seeing Amaranthine protected," she goes on, inexorably. "So, yes. I think you'd stay. Because you'd do what had to be done." She pushes back from the little table abruptly. "Stay here."

Nathaniel watches her go, thoughts reeling. He didn't want to be a Warden in the first place. Being second-in-command to the Warden-Commander… or _being_ the Warden-Commander…

"Here." The Commander returns, holding out a bow, carefully but clumsily as though she isn't quite sure where to keep hold of it. "This is your family's crest, I believe."

The Howe bow. "Yes," Nathaniel says, half-disbelieving as he takes it out of her hands. Beneath his fingertips the wood is satin-smooth, cool and well-worn but strong. "Where did you find this?"

"Tucked away." The Commander settles back into her chair, and from the corner of his eye Nathaniel has the sense that she's watching him closely. "I thought you should have it."

So there's the trap. Nathaniel jerks his gaze away from the ancient bow. "You think you can bribe me?" he demands. "Sway my opinion by giving me a gift?"

"It isn't a gift," she returns quietly, waiting. "It's yours. It isn't mine to give you."

Nathaniel doesn't answer, stroking a hand over the bow as though it's alive.

"I didn't know if it would be useful," she goes on. "I've only ever seen you fight with your daggers. But if you can use it…"

"Yes." Nathaniel gives a short, grim laugh. "I know how to use it."

"Good. As soon as everyone's cleared out we're leaving for the Knotwood Hills, after the darkspawn." She leans forward, elbows on the table, and he thinks she's going to say more but she must think better of it. She nods as though deciding something, and leaves him in peace.


	15. Old Friends, Old Problems

Everyone at Vigil's Keep has been perfectly civil to Fergus, which isn't entirely unexpected but does pose a rather unusual problem.

Back at Highever it had been so much easier to nurse a nebulous string of unarticulated grievances, to paint a mental image of how poorly Amaranthine must be doing under the administration of an utter newcomer. Instead, Vigil's Keep itself seems to be well-ordered if running a bit shorthanded, and instead of either gratitude or ignorance the arlessa herself seems to receive him (after that first surreal meeting) with a quiet, sharp attention he finds more than a bit disconcerting.

It had been particularly disconcerting during the ceremony, with a half-dozen lesser nobles trying to elbow their way over, talking out of the corners of their mouths about tradition and mages and how _your father would never have stood for this, Your Grace._

Personally, Fergus has to wonder if his father might've thought it was damned funny, not least because those who care about it seem as though they care so very _much. _He'd tried to be as noncommittal as possible—mage issues are best left to the Chantry, in his opinion, and he has no idea how much of the old spook-tales are true—but the arlessa had watched him from time to time, silent across the large and noisy hall, and he'd had to wonder a bit if she knew.

Or if it really is true, and mages can read minds like other men read books.

But afterwards Fergus doesn't speak of it, and the arlessa doesn't bring it up. It may not be the usual order of things to be invited to breakfast, but one doesn't turn down an opportunity to attend a gathering of Grey Wardens. (At least not since Ostagar, when one had been politely but firmly excluded from all Grey Warden goings-on, no matter how powerful one's curiosity was, and how much one may or may not have tried peeking in through a hole in the tent.) It's just the littlest bit disappointing when breakfast turns out only to be breakfast. There's a letter from the king the arlessa reads and tucks away without comment, a half-dozen minor issues the seneschal raises for discussion and decision, and enough food to feed all of Highever for a weekend.

Only one thing—one person—is conspicuously absent.

Fergus clears his throat. At Highever, this would bring an entire room to attention, but the Wardens glance up at him with only mild interest. "Excuse me," he begins, feeling annoyed for reasons he can't quite name. "Where is Nathaniel Howe, exactly? I heard that he was with you."

The arlessa raises her eyebrows. "I don't know," she says, and that seems to be the end of that.

Any needs he has are taken care of immediately by the staff, any input he offers is listened to intently by the arlessa, and the only thing to make his stay at Vigil's less than perfect is the nagging sensation of something missing.

Only when he finally gives up on not-quite-snooping does he find Nathaniel. Nathaniel, for his part, doesn't look particularly happy to be found, frowning and edging to one side of the narrow stairwell. "Excuse me."

Fergus doesn't move. When he'd last seen Nathaniel they'd both been nearly-grown boys, drunk on pilfered liquor and being dragged off in opposite directions. While his father had mostly thought it was funny and laughed at Fergus' moaning about his hangover the next morning, Fergus had wondered if Nathaniel's father had been so forgiving.

Mostly, as the moment hangs, Fergus wonders when Nathaniel got to looking so old. "You _are_ here," Fergus blurts, and then, "You look terrible."

"I live here." Nathaniel scowls. "Excuse me."

"The arlessa said you were a Grey Warden."

Nathaniel narrows his eyes. "Imagine that." It's completely preposterous—and of a Howe, of all things—but Highever had been empty and grim, and it seems ages since he'd been around anyone who knew him when he was young. To see Nathaniel, here, brings an unexpected surge of memory, a nameless, insistent feeling of something nearly drowned out by the bitterness but still there, all the same. "When did you get back from Antiva?" he asks, and then thinks, no, not Antiva. Where had it been?

Nathaniel's mouth tightens and he inclines his head in recognition, looking past Fergus, back up the stairwell. "Commander."

Fergus turns, expecting to see the arlessa, but the stairwell behind him is utterly empty, and when he turns back around Nathaniel is gone.

-oOo-

It's a relief to be back out on the road. Even fond as she's becoming of Vigil's Keep, it's good to have a direction, a chance to find out what's going on with the darkspawn. Navigating her way through politics had been exhausting, and she'd been glad to see the vassals go. Nobles want a thousand things they'll never ask for directly. In comparison the darkspawn are almost refreshingly uncomplicated.

Or rather, they would be, if they'd been around. That they aren't only makes Therrin twitchier. She can feel the thrumming through her senses that tells her the darkspawn are here, somewhere, but they've not seen so much as a lone genlock, and as they make camp for the evening on the side of the road, Therrin tries to sort out her annoyances into something productive.

The darkspawn. Politics. Oghren.

Anders starts a campfire and Oghren sits on a fallen log to sharpen his axe, not once looking up. She'd protested when Varel suggested tossing him into the dungeons for a few days, pointing out rather reasonably that his actions should have consequences. She'd been too uncomfortable with the idea. Instead, she'd tried to talk to him. He'd been drunk then, too, and hadn't seemed to hear a word she'd said.

_I miss my pony. Will you get me a pony? _

It gnaws at her that she's become a commander without ever having been a soldier and so she is at loose ends over what to do. As the evening deepens Nathaniel slinks off into the trees, holding his bow, Dog stretches out on his belly by the fire, and Cullen tends his sword. Cullen, she thinks, wondering. Templars are soldiers, after a fashion. They have a chain of command. They have rules. She hadn't ever seen a templar reprimanded but she knows they have punishments, and so it dawns on her that of anyone she has on hand to ask, Cullen might know what to do.

"Can I talk to you a moment?" she asks, half-muttering under her breath once she's close enough. "In private?"

Cullen glances around the campsite, apparently satisfied at what he sees. He nods once, shortly, and follows her a little ways into the trees. "I was hoping to get a moment to speak to you too, actually." He leans against the trunk of a gnarled oak, crossing his arms and looking nervous. Probably uneasy about leaving Anders alone, Therrin thinks, momentarily annoyed.

"I had a questi—"

"I was going to ask you—"

Therrin shuts her mouth abruptly, frowning, but Cullen avoids her eyes. "You first."

"I was going to ask you about disciplining an underling. As in… well, Oghren," she begins, feeling wary and not quite knowing why.

Cullen looks up, at that, confused. "Oghren?"

"Yes." Therrin crosses her arms, unsettled. "Why, what were you going to ask?"

"I…" Cullen gives a short laugh, looking rueful. "Nothing. Nothing that can't wait." Before she can formulate a response he asks, "what was it you wanted to know?"

-oOo-

Dog likes Amaranthine. It is big and wet and smells of so many things, and as the Wardens travel Dog runs up and down the road, tail wagging and nose twitching with excitement. There are deer in the trees, and rabbits somewhere, but Dog doesn't go chase them because he isn't going to let Therrin out of his sight.

The last time Dog was not-there, Therrin was hurt, and Dog isn't about to be not-there again if she needs him. Camp is not quite so nice as it used to be, without Alistair and Leliana and Morrigan. Before everyone was at least sort-of-friends. Here they aren't, and Oghren is different.

It is a bad difference. Oghren had used to drink and laugh and talk, and used to be generous with food and playing both. Now Oghren just drinks, sitting alone in silence on the edge of the camp and not looking at anyone.

Once, Dog edges over, whining quietly and ears flattened. You are different, Dog says. You were bad? He had caught fragments of conversations about Oghren being the one to hurt Therrin, and he had been confused because Oghren wouldn't but Therrin was hurt anyway, and now they aren't talking and to Dog it feels new and wrong.

Oghren doesn't move from where he's slumped on the log, glaring up balefully with only one eye open. "G'way, Dog."

Dog growls, not liking it at all, but Oghren ignores him and so Dog slinks back to the other side of the fire.

People are complicated.

But fighting is not complicated and Dog is very good at it, even at fighting the enormous bereskarn that lumbers down a hill at them when they are on the road the next day. It roars and shows all of its yellow teeth, and Dog leaps around it, barking and dodging the swipes of its massive claws, distracting it so it doesn't charge any of the Wardens. Dog snaps and lunges, springing in close and snarling, jumping back away just in time, and the bereskarn groans in pain at the assault coming from all sides, not knowing where to turn to attack first. It does not take very long to kill. Dog pants when it falls to the dusty ground and doesn't rise again.

It is good to have something to fight.

After that there are deep stalkers, little snappish things with snaky necks that chirrup and dart back and forth, needle-teeth flashing. Their spines break when Dog seizes them and gives them a shake, tossing one to the ground and pouncing on the next. They don't take very long to kill, either, and Dog sits and scratches behind one ear as the Wardens look down the long, tilted hallway and talk.

Of course it is the Deep Roads, Dog thinks, he has seen them enough to know. Dog knows before Therrin says so that they are going to go down that tilted hallway to where the darkspawn are. He yawns widely, stretching, ready to fight some more.

At the end of the hallway is a dwarf. Dog likes dwarves. When he was in Orzammar they had looked at him and remarked upon him and he had enjoyed the attention, and anyway this dwarf is being dragged by a hurlock leaning down to hold her by the ankle. She kicks it in the face which Dog approves of very much, and after that there isn't time for thinking because there is more fighting.

The air goes alive with magic and steel, the clash of axes and daggers and swords against armor and stone, the surge of lightning and the hiss of ice. Dog leaps on a genlock and bears it to the ground, striking out with open jaws. Darkspawn blood is disgusting but Dog doesn't stop, nails scrabbling on the tilted stone as he lunges for the hamstring of the emissary, magic warping around him as the darkspawn's spell is thwarted.

It is a good feeling. Dog is breathing hard by the time all the darkspawn are dead, trotting up beside Therrin for ear-scratches, but Therrin is barely paying attention because she is looking at the dwarf. "Are you all right?"

The dwarf is breathing just as hard as Dog. "All right's a pretty relative thing when you're dead. Which is to say yes," she amends with a brief laugh. "Everything hurts, but I'm still breathing enough for everything to hurt. It's a positive."

You are a dwarf, Dog pants, wagging his tail in greeting. I like your horns.

The dwarf looks at him, startled and holding tight to her axe. "Did that just… what _are_ you?"

I am a dog, Dog says, not offended because no one in Orzammar knew what a dog was either.

"He's a mabari," Therrin explains. "I'm Therrin, Commander of the Grey Wardens. Who are—"

"Grey Wardens?" the dwarf interrupts, looking much happier. "Really? I've heard about Grey Wardens, but I never expected to meet one. Lucky you came along when you did, you know?"

Therrin looks a baffled for a second. "I guess it was."

The dwarf gives a quick nod, looking back to the cave-hole and squaring up in determination. "I've got to get back in there, crazy as it sounds." She glances up at Therrin, smelling troubled. "I guess if you are Grey Wardens, you should know that there's something going on with the darkspawn."

"That's what we came to investigate."

"They're different than anything I've ever seen," the dwarf goes on, looking grave. "They're smart. I think they're breeding an army somewhere down in Kal'Hirol."

"Breeding an army?" Anders demands, sounding thoroughly repulsed. "How does that go? Darkspawn courtship? Gifts of pus and blighted flowers?"

The dwarf sizes Anders up quickly and doesn't seem impressed. "No. Broodmothers. You're not a Warden too, are you?"

Anders draws himself up to his full height. "As a matter of fact, I'm very nearly the senior Warden here. I'm practically the second in command."

Therrin glances at him. "Nathaniel's my second in command." Anders and Oghren both look surprised, but Dog thinks Oghren smells angry. Therrin turns back to the lady-dwarf. "If the darkspawn are breeding an army we've got to stop them. And if you're going back in, you're welcome to join us. It sounds like we've got a common goal."

"Safety in numbers, huh?" She seems to think for a second. "This _is_ lucky. You're not part dwarf, are you? I'd almost say the ancestors sent you."

Therrin smiles, at that, and Dog pants beside her happily. "Afraid not. Mage."

The dwarf snorts. "No one's perfect." But she thinks for a minute and nods, brisk and businesslike. "The name's Sigrun. Legion of the Dead."

"I didn't want to be the second in command anyway," Anders mutters as they head for the entrance to the Deep Roads.

Dog sneezes at the heavy dust in the air as they drop down into the cave-entrance, rubbing at his nose with one paw and feeling uncomfortable. The air itches and none of the others seem to feel it. He can smell the darkspawn, close and very many, and the hairs on his neck stand up bristly as he growls. But the other-smell gets stronger with every new room and hall they enter, a not-air thing that makes him whine because it seems so familiar and he does not know what it is. He keeps close to Therrin as she leads the way into darkness, and worries about smells he cannot name.


	16. Fire in the Darkness

It took a while to get used to the Deep Roads, at least for Therrin, but these days they seem familiar enough to be predictable even in thaigs she's never seen before. Familiarity is its own danger, though. Familiarity breeds complacency, and complacency down here can be a short road to a quick death.

But they have more than enough problems to keep them from getting too comfortable. The air down here feels hard to breathe and strange, an odd weight to it that burns in her chest and makes her feel restless and edgy.

Jukka's warning before he'd crumpled and died rings in her ears, _beware the children._

Therrin hasn't ever seen a darkspawn child and doesn't know what to expect. She takes the measure of her team out of the corners of her eye trying to weigh what they might do if faced with a darkspawn child, if they'd hesitate, if they'd attack.

Sound echoes down here strangely, twisting through the long, dark halls, and the feeling of weight to the air only gets stronger the further they go. There is another feeling, slow and lingering, so gradual it doesn't register at first: an unfurling feeling of power, as though her reserves of magic are being stretched and filled at once, almost intoxicating. The sensation feels ripe with possibility, a restless sort of anticipation thrumming through her nerves. Her thoughts circle like hawks: if she had to, if she really had to, she could kill all the darkspawn herself. She could send the others out of harm's way and cast without having to hold back. She could bring the great weight of the rock above her down like a falling mountain, crushing everything, solving it all at once.

Anders couldn't do it, she muses as she turns a corner and walks under a pair of spiders. Anders jumps out of the way but she doesn't hesitate to call down fire and ignite them where they crawl. She's stronger than Anders, she's sure of it, stronger than Anders or Wynne or even Irving.  There's a fervent surge of pride at that, as strong and dark as wine, the feeling of being the most powerful mage in all Ferelden.

_Stronger than Uldred_, a reminder comes from the depths of her brain, _and he had the power of a demon behind him_.

The thought doesn't feel like hers, and that realization is like being doused with cold water. Therrin swallows, thickly, and only belatedly recognizes the mineral tang of lyrium burning down the back of her throat though she hasn't taken any, not for ages.

In the light from her staff the air hangs heavy, stiflingly dense. She'd taken too much lyrium before, once. Apprentices don't really take it much, and never unsupervised, and once out of the Tower she hadn't known her limits. She'd paced around the camp for hours, after, feeling as though her skin was too small to hold the magic inside her. There had been a frenetic need to do something about it she'd barely been able to suppress and only then because Alistair had been watching. But even that feels like a long time ago. _Surely you're even stronger now, think of what you could do if—_

_Go away_. Therrin groans and presses the heels of both her hands to her eyes as though she could push her thoughts back into order, not caring that her staff clatters to the stone.

"You too, then?" Anders asks from somewhere behind her, sounding faint.

Therrin doesn't answer. The sense of slipperiness lurks at the edges of her mind, rippling like the coils of a venomous snake.

"You all right, Commander?" When Therrin opens her eyes Sigrun looks skeptical, as though she's missed the part of the joke that will make it all make sense.

Oghren snorts a laugh and Therrin feels a sharp spike of anger, the disproportionate urge to push back and see how he likes to be on the receiving end of a friend's deadly attentions. The slither-thing prowling at the back of her brain seems to cheer.

When she looks to Cullen his face is pale, eyes large and dark in the odd light. _Go away_, she thinks again, more ferociously, snarling at the predatory thing lurking at the edges of her brain. _Cullen will kill me and then where will you be?_

The invasive feeling in her mind slinks off with a grumble, but she doesn't trust that it's gone for good. On closer inspection, though, Cullen doesn't look quite well either. Maybe it's her eyes but his hands seem to be trembling, and his breathing's gone funny as though he's trying not to breathe at all. "It's in the air, isn't it?" Therrin asks, hopelessness settling like a too-heavy coat onto her shoulders. "There's lyrium dust in the air."

Anders flops down to sit cross-legged on the stone and hold his head in both hands. "I knew I felt funny."

"I think so," Cullen says quietly, almost as an afterthought.

Therrin glances over sharply, troubled at his lack of surprise. "You knew." He nods once, looking haunted. "You should've gone back," Therrin insists, throat raw. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

Cullen doesn't answer immediately, stepping over and leaning in close. Between Cullen and the wall she feels small, overshadowed, but still she can't help but think that this flushed with power, this full of magic she's stronger than he could ever be. Therrin shakes her head but can't shake the thought away; it clings like ichor and makes her stomach rebel in disgust.

His voice, when he speaks, is low enough Therrin can barely hear him. "I keep thinking I feel something. Something dark, at the Veil. I didn't want to turn around and go and…" He swallows, hard. "And leave you to whatever might be after you."

"Commander, what's going on?" Nathaniel asks with an edge to his voice. "We shouldn't stay in one place, not here." He shudders slightly, glancing out into the darkness around them.

Therrin explains as impassively as she can, ignoring Anders when he laughs, head still in his hands.

"Then we should split up," Nathaniel says at last, fingers tightening on his bow. There, just there, he looks like a leader, Therrin thinks, another surge of pride welling up at the thought that she'd chosen well after all. "You and Anders can head back for the surface. I'll take everyone else—"

Dog growls a refusal and pins himself to Therrin's side as though he could permanently attach himself.

"The rest of you, then," Nathaniel amends, deflating a bit.

Oghren grimaces. "You know the first thing about the Deep Roads, boy?"

Nathaniel looks at him askance. "I know they're deep. And _roads_."

Oghren snorts. "Yeah, this'll work out great."

"We're not splitting up," Therrin says, voice raspy, but everyone else goes quiet just the same. "It can't be too much farther. We'll get in, do what we have to, and get out." If there's pressure building inside her to cast maybe she should find some darkspawn and bloody well cast until they collapse into cinders and this all-over urge dies away. But Cullen's expression is unfathomable. "Except for you," she says, quietly. "You have to go back."

Cullen considers it. "No."

Stubborn, she thinks with a flash of irritation. But the air isn't getting any thinner here. If she's lucky there might be vents to the surface up ahead, and clearer air so she can breathe.

"All right." She picks up her fallen staff, trying not to look as deeply uncomfortable as she feels. "All right. Let's go."

-oOo-

The stone is full of ghosts. Cullen hears the combat before he sees it, but at the sight of the spectral fighters the entire company comes to a halt, stunned. There are dwarves—or the ghosts of dwarves, and darkspawn, too—swinging axes and daggers, phantoms locked in combat and not giving any notice to the living as they pass.

Their company falls still at the sight of battles fought and lost again and again, the spectral forms trading blows and disappearing into the darkness only to reemerge moments later. In a hushed, troubled voice, Sigrun calls it the memories of the stone. As the tunnel goes deeper and the ghosts become more vocal, Cullen begins to think he has another name for it.

Abandonment.

He knows he's not exactly clearheaded, not with lyrium burning a bright line through his nerves and blazing in his brain, but the stone all around him seems to emanate despair. The Deep Roads hadn't ever  struck him as a particularly cheerful place but Kal'Hirol seems leaden with despair, a darkness that screams of hopelessness and bloody defeat.

In a way, it feels as familiar as the lyrium. Not this—not quite—but close enough, near enough to stir up old half-buried horrors. Under attack, the Tower had felt just like this. Of course then he'd suffered the lack of lyrium and now he's almost drowning in it, but the feeling is the same. Desperation and hatred war at the edges of his brain, dark and pulsing with a false energy that saps him even as it spurs him on.

The dwarves hadn't just been forgotten, he thinks. They were left, deserted, as surely as he and the other templars had been abandoned when the Tower had fallen to Uldred and his blood mages. (Closed off behind barred doors and given up for dead, and it was Greagoir who gave the order, Greagoir who trapped him and his brothers and called for Annulment and waited in safety while good people died.)

The contrast between the bright fire of lyrium and the bleak darkness of the scarred stone around him makes the shadows waver, full of figures lurking at the edges of his vision. Agitation crawls beneath his skin, and he isn't sure whether it's because of the air or the darkspawn or the uneasy awareness of Therrin and Anders' magic straining at its limits.

It seems a long time of walking through darkness before they discover a small respite: a column of light and air streaming in through the ceiling, a chamber where the air seems blessedly thinner, and with a noise of relief Therrin calls a halt and they break for a rest. With lyrium burning through his nerves hunger is the last thing on Cullen's mind, but the Wardens divide strips of dried meat between themselves, chewing slowly and watching the shadows for darkspawn.

When Therrin edges off toward some sort of reservoir at the edge of the room, he follows. It should feel better. With the thinner air he'd hoped it would, and he thinks that's why she stopped here, but as he settles close to Therrin his head hurts, as though her magic's gone strident and overpowering even dormant. "We're not stopping long," she says tonelessly, not looking up from the water. "If you need to catch some sleep—"

"I couldn't sleep here," Cullen interrupts, the words feeling muffled to his ears as though the shadows are actively dampening light and sound. "It feels too much like the Tower."

Therrin does look up, then, the littlest bit curious.

"When it fell," he goes on, the press of memories shuffling together and looming large in his mind. "It felt like this place. Broken. Horrible." He tosses a tiny shard of stone into the water and watches it sink. "He knew, then, didn't he? Greagoir knew that I was his son, even as he locked everyone in with the demons and abominations."

Therrin doesn't answer at first. "I think he always knew," she says at last, hunched over and resting her elbows on her knees.

"And Wynne, too. He knew she was in there, trapped with demons and blood mages."

Therrin's eyebrows draw together in concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he insists, and then, like a dog worrying at a bone: "He knew and he did it anyway. And—I know I was a mistake, he didn't… but Wynne. She can't have meant _anything_ to him, could she? She was…"

"Cullen—"

"I couldn't have done it to you," he interrupts, agitated, his breath coming fast and painful. His thoughts feel chaotic, a flurry of voices that make it hard to sit still. "If I'd known you were in there I couldn't have locked you away to die. But he did it to Wynne. He can't have cared about her at all." He would've gone in himself, after Therrin, would've had the door barred behind them if he must, but he would not have abandoned her.

Therrin looks momentarily lost for words, the sense of turbulence about her magic spiking, feeling as though it's hammering at the inside of his skull. "I think he did what he thought he had to," she ventures finally, uncertain.

But Greagoir wasn't what Cullen had thought he was in any of that time. Cullen had thought Greagoir the perfect templar, vigilant and devoted, but beneath the skin of duty was nothing but heartlessness, a calculated coldness devoted to nothing but himself. Greagoir was a failure, a hypocrite and a coward and a traitor because if it had been Cullen, there, with his old lover and his son in danger, he'd bloody well not have _barred the doors_. "Why are you defending him?" he demands, bitterly. "You _hated_ him."

"I didn't hate him," Therrin protests, turning in place to look at him.

"You _should_ have hated him."

"I was afraid of him," Therrin corrects, voice low. "It's not the same thing."

"No? _I_ was afraid of him, sometimes," Cullen confesses, the words spat out like an accusation. "But I never hated him until he was my father."

Therrin watches him, magic roiling so badly he almost reaches for a push of will to stop it. "I still think you should go back."

"No." Anxiety squirms like maggots beneath his skin, making it impossible to be still. "I already told you no."

"Are you in any state to be down here?"

Cullen doesn't budge. "Are _you?_"

"There's something wrong with the darkspawn." Which is not an answer, not exactly, but before Cullen can argue she goes on, "If they're breeding an army, here, in the middle of all this lyrium, there has to be a reason. I can't turn back." The sensation of barely-held magic comes again, worse than before, violent and strong and making Cullen wince.

"I'm not turning back until you do," he says, dogged and grim.

"That isn't fair."

Cullen shrugs, not particularly caring. Greagoir may have been a hypocrite but Cullen is not; he was a templar raised and trained and he is not abandoning his chosen duty, not now, not ever.

Therrin looks as though she's about to say something but some creature gives a roar from down the tunnel and the distant clash of steel echoes down the stone of the walls. "More darkspawn," she says, faint as though she's barely in this world at all.

"Then we're wasting time," Cullen insists, and though Therrin's glance is razor-sharp and dissatisfied she nods, and they ready their weapons and fall in line.

With turning back out of the question, there's nowhere to go but onward.

-oOo-

Dog doesn't like the Deep Roads. They are dark and long, and there is nothing green about them at all. But he does like Sigrun, even after the horns turn out to be stuck to her helmet. From here beside her at the middle of the pack, Dog can keep an eye on Therrin without being in the way. Her spells are bigger than usual and the ice she casts bites at his nose and ears. He had whined at her, after, and pushed at her hand with his nose, but she hadn't noticed him. She smells of magic so much it makes Dog's nose hurt, strong enough to cover the human-smell underneath.

A scratching sound comes from somewhere ahead, scrabbly and somehow liquid, and they round the edge of the clammy wall and find a grub-thing eating a darkspawn.

The horrible grub-thing looks up and screams and begins to twitch, growing like a bloody insect, all black claws and spindly legs. Dog has never seen anything like it but when it lurches forward with its mouth open other creatures like it wriggle from holes in the walls, alerted by the noise, and all of them come screaming for the Wardens.

They are not smart, the monsters. The first one dives for Dog's eyes and Dog jumps out of the way, darting in low to seize its leg in his jaws and yank. He twists, planting his paws and digging in with his haunches and pulling until the leg snaps in his teeth, crunchy and dry and disgusting. Dog ignores the monster when it screams, jaws open and snapping wetly at him as Dog lunges for another.

There are very many of them and they attack all at once, but the Wardens are ferocious and cut through the monsters with terrible speed. Beside him Sigrun shouts and hacks one of the monsters in half, but another skitters over, legs creaking as it pounces, and she shouts as she tumbles to the stone, the creature leaning in with jaws open.

Dog leaps, his shoulder crashing into the monster with a heavy thud, pushing it off of Sigrun and sending it scrabbling to the floor. They go rolling across the stone in a tangle of fur and fangs and rickety limbs before Dog heaves himself up and sinks his teeth into the monster's soft underbelly. He rips, shaking his head and coming away with a putrid mouthful of flesh he gags on immediately. Darkspawn are disgusting but this is even worse.

When it quivers and shrieks Dog snaps its leg off very close to its body, and it curls in on itself like a spider as it dies, twitching and folding and finally going still. It is the last of them, and in the aftermath of battle the ring of swords and axes goes quiet and the haze of magic begins to clear.

"Whew," Sigrun breathes faintly, propping herself on her elbows. "Kind of a close one."

"What _were_ those things?" Anders demands, sounding shaken. Dog can't help but notice that the cat is nowhere to be seen, not useful at all at fighting, and he feels very superior.  

"I don't know," Therrin admits, sounding far away.

"Abominations," Nathaniel says, "even among the darkspawn. That what he said, isn't it?" He glances at Sigrun, looking troubled. "Do you think these creatures could be the children your friend mentioned?"

Sigrun huffs a tendril of hair out of her eyes. "Could be. I wasn't expecting cooing babies, you know, but… this—" She lets out a slow breath.

"All right," Nathaniel says at last, sounding very uncomfortable and looking from Anders to Cullen to Therrin in turn. Therrin is distracted-looking and doesn't act like the leader; when Dog pads over to nose at her fingers she doesn't give any sign that she feels it. "We should keep on. And stay ready," Nathaniel adds, as though they would do anything else.

The heavy feeling of the ceiling gets worse as they press on and Dog flattens his ears and slinks low to the ground. The air down here is very bad, thick and burning along the inside of his nose. But after a little descent Therrin and Cullen stop, and Dog whimpers a little at the sudden halt.

There is a hanging-thing over a chasm, blue-bright and smelling like burning and magic.

"Lyrium," Cullen murmurs, soft in the silence.

"Enough to kill an _army_," Anders groans, holding his head.

Sigrun doesn't seem worried by the lyrium. She strides up to the edge of the chasm and looks down. "There. The broodmothers." When she glances back her face is sweaty and flushed with excitement. "That's got to be the source of the darkspawn army."

Therrin is staring at the lyrium, looking like listening and not answering, and finally Nathaniel nods, frowning and stepping forward. "Let's go kill them, then."

They file down the stairs, one by one by one and Dog is the very last to go, nudging Therrin away from the terrible lyrium-thing. He is a good Dog. He will fight and guard and defend, he will protect his human from everything he can, but he doesn't know how to protect her from this.


	17. Going Through Old Motions

Lyrium, Therrin had heard, sings.

There had been the dwarf in Orzammar who'd spoken of it, addled as he was, about a sound, a song, deep underground with veins of lyrium calling out through the stone. Therrin can't hear anything, not with her ears, but the whole of her body feels pitched to the hum of the lyrium in Kal'Hirol, vibrating like a resonator to the sound that isn't a sound. Concentrating on anything else feels difficult, near-painful, as though the keen edges of her focus cut when she turns it away from anything but the lyrium.

But better the lyrium than anything else. There are presences at the edges of her mind, lurking like shadows at the bottom of a well.

The darkspawn down here are crowded in thick and there isn't time to dwell on why the hiss at the back of her brain has fallen quiet. Battle feels distant even as she flings herself into it, as though she's hardly connected to her body at all, a disembodied brain pulling the strings of a puppet. Therrin tries to remember the limits of her own spells, the size and shape of them in her hands and mind, but it's a futile endeavor. The limits of her power have gone watery, stretched and faded, and with the lyrium-hum commanding her attention she can hardly think.

_Lyrium changes you_, Oghren had said at the temple of Andraste. _It bends everything around it_.

Had it been enough to change the darkspawn?

She takes a hit from a dagger and hardly feels it. Anders' healing spell washes over her a moment later, over-strong and outlining her a moment in light, a flood of magic pouring through her in a different kind of resonance that only makes the power inside her lunge like a beast on a too-thin chain.

Even more emissaries race into the chamber, tall and wild-eyed and reaching for magic, and there's a moment's grim satisfaction as Cullen charges them and they lash out in defense. She had suspected there must be a reason the darkspawn are breeding an army here, tucked away in these lyrium-riddled halls. They aren't just breeding darkspawn, they're breeding _powerful_ darkspawn, emissaries fueled by lyrium from their first breaths of air.

Still, they seem utterly unprepared for anything like Cullen. Watching the battle feels like something out of a dream, like witnessing a fight happening to someone else. Not much farther, she thinks, and finds she doesn't care.

Distance feels so warped, here. The corridors twist and wind and double back, oddly flat, leaving deep corners full of shadows in which darkspawn can hide. The air down here is stifling and she gasps like a dying bird, every lungful of lyrium inching the pressure inside her higher and higher.

It's a relief to finally round a corner without finding a battle for the fighting. Therrin sinks onto an anvil by the wall for a moment's rest, trying to piece back together her eggshell-fragile thoughts. They can't do this much longer, she thinks. Cullen never looked worse, even with his face smashed in. Now he's clammy and pale, his eyes glittering in the lyrium-light and looking like nothing human.

It should be alarming but the idea doesn't bring any fear with it at all, not like this. Half given over to the Fade she can only barely feel the responses of her body. She could push off, just a little, and it wouldn't even take much. She could rip open the Veil and call on an army of spirits for help and no one could stop it.

But Oghren is staring at her. "What is it?" she rasps out, surprised at the roughness of her own voice.

Oghren seems lost in thought, looking at the anvil. Not at her, she realizes. "They made 'em different, those days. Not like when Branka…" He shivers as though hit by a cold wind only he can feel.

Branka. People live in circles, Wynne had said. Branka is Oghren's circle and he will never make things right for her because he killed her. "You couldn't have done anything for her," Therrin tells him, trying to grasp the threads of the idea to keep them from unraveling. "I was there, remember?"

"I know," Oghren says, quiet and grim. "And I know she's gone. I…" His mouth twists unpleasantly. "Sod it." He glares at the anvil. "Just brings back memories. Not good ones."

Therrin licks her dry, cracked lips. They burn beneath her tongue. "You did what you could."

"Let Branka down and let her get herself killed," Oghren rumbles, stony and gruff and seeming mired in his own particular misery. "Let you down and just about got you killed. Let Felsi and the nugget down and—" He shakes his head and doesn't finish.

Therrin stares at him, numb. "You couldn't have saved her." She frowns, trying to think, wondering what she can say to make this better, to snap her fingers and get back the old Oghren who was loyal and devoted beyond reason and who she would have died for in a moment. "Branka got herself killed. And fine, in Amaranthine, you had too much to drink and—"

Oghren snorts, cutting her off, and frustration roars in her ears, blotting out the last of her patience. "So _do better_," Therrin insists, voice raw. "So fight, because I need you. What happened to showing them our hearts and then showing them theirs?"

From his spot nearby, Anders makes a face. "Ew."

Therrin ignores him, pitching her voice low. "We've always been straight with each other, haven't we?" she asks. "I know it's hard," she goes on, swallowing thickly as the mineral taste of lyrium burns a trail down to her belly. "Branka was bad enough. I can't believe Felsi left you."

Oghren flinches.

Therrin is sorry in an instant for pushing too hard. "Just… just try," she says. "You'll get through. We're here for you." And it's not much of a motivational speech, nothing at all like Alistair's rousing appeal to the soldiers _today we shall defend Ferelden._

It must work well enough, because Oghren nods. "I'm with you," he says at last, voice gruff. When he looks up, his eyes are bright but not like Cullen's, a brightness of feeling instead of lyrium. "I won't let you down, Warden."

"You're a Warden, too," she reminds him.

He actually smiles at that, the corner of his mouth crooking up. "Hey, whaddaya know?"

Therrin pushes off the anvil, ignoring the feeling of floating several feet above her body. "Then let's go."

A long and lonely corridor stretches ahead, straight as the path of an arrow. The distance seems to waver as though she's peering at it through water, every stone of the hall like a weapon pointed right at her, and at the end of it, horrors.

An enormous, fiery golem towers above the circle-stone floor and by his side, another of the talking darkspawn, so like that first one back at Vigil's Keep that Therrin startles for a moment out of the lyrium-haze pressing in at her mind. The darkspawn shouts about a mother and Therrin doesn't understand, but darkspawn and battle is a familiar enough path to follow. When the others charge the monstrous thing she prepares to cast and a churning tower of ice builds up within her.

As the room erupts in fire, she hears the sounds of battle around her, distant and inconsequential. She is a Warden and fighting darkspawn is her destiny, and she takes breath after breath as the lyrium-air pours more magic into her reserves as fast as she can use it. The fiery golem freezes when she forces ice into its joints, wrenching it apart by inches. From deep within the thing come the creaks and groans of warping metal but too soon the spell is over, spent and useless, and fire licks along the edges of the monstrosity again as it rallies and ignites the floor. There is magic coming from everywhere: from Anders as he heals himself, from the darkspawn as he heals the golem, surging through Therrin's veins unstoppable as an avalanche.

She reels, dizzy, tries to snap back into control, and can't. The golem clanks closer to Cullen, heat rolling off of it in waves as it charges, and a tense coil of denial snaps in the pit of her belly, cold and absolute.

Magic crackles along her nerves, lunging and immensely powerful as she stretches her power to the fullest and calls down ice with all the strength in her soul.

The temperature plummets. She knows it, even if she can hardly feel the drift of snowflakes past her face, or hear the wind-whipped howl of ice as it screams through the chamber. The golem freezes again, weakened, the darkspawn-mage knocked back and frozen in place on the floor. She can take them both at once, she can end this and save everyone. Power pours through her veins, a wild torrent of magic, open and free and enormous as she reaches deeper and her senses go wide. She can feel the broodmothers below, undulating and distressed, she can feel the genlocks huddled in a lower floor, confused at the sudden drop in temperature and hissing in fear. Therrin pushes out farther than ever before, riding the heady enormity of the spell as it crests, stronger than anything she had ever dared cast and deadly cold, an explosion of ice building and all she has to do is let it go.

A strike of will hits her like a battering ram to the chest. The spell dies, the abrupt feeling of having her magic stripped away leaving her sick as she hits the floor hard and her teeth jar together. Darkness overtakes her with a roar like a terrible wind, but as quickly as the light fades it returns, over-bright. The ringing in her ears and the taste of her own blood jerk her around from unconsciousness, back to the death-throes of the golem and to the sight of Cullen, tall and dangerous and striding over, sword in his hands, rallying the cleansing.

Therrin flinches and puts up a hand as though she could stop it, but the effects are inexorable. With a strike from the flat of his blade on her leg Cullen rips the rest of her mana away and she gasps desperately for air, the towering feel of invincibility utterly destroyed. She scrambles back on her elbows as he looms above her like something out of a nightmare.

Terror and a poisonous fury seethe in tandem along her nerves, and when Cullen leans down the instinct to flee surges into life. Therrin rolls to the side, dodging and springing to her feet with more panic than grace. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she demands, shaking with a corrosive outrage and backing away, staff leveled at his face.

Cullen frowns, looking confused, one hand still outstretched from preparing to help her to her feet. "Wrong with me?" His sword is still in his other hand, malevolent-looking in a way it had never been before. She edges away as his expression darkens. "You were overextending and out of control; I just _saved your_ _life_."

The nausea from earlier floods back in a rush, acrid in her throat. "By knocking me out?" Therrin snaps, hoarse and disbelieving. "By leaving me helpless?"

"You were going to kill us all!" Cullen starts forward again and Therrin retreats, fear sending her heartbeat racing and her magic already pouring back. "You didn't know what you were doing—"

"So you couldn't just stop the spell? You had to take _everything_ from me?"

The others are watching, shivering with the slow-receding cold from the spell. When Therrin glances over they look away quickly. Cullen glares at their audience, not backing down. "I did what I had to," he insists, whisper-quiet and vehement and getting closer. "Would you stop?" He reaches out and seizes her arm, holding uncomfortably tight and she tries to shake him off but he doesn't budge.

"You could have killed me!"

"You would have died if I hadn't," Cullen insists, every word clipped with anger. "I've seen a mage die from overextension. I know what it looks like and you were out of control."

Therrin jerks her arm away, furious.

"I was trying to protect you," he says, less quietly, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I don't _care_." She glares at him, seething and sick. The air feels greasy, here, the stench of the broodmothers sliding down her nose and throat like drowning in oil; she squeezes her eyes closed with a hand to her stomach as though she could stop it from rebelling. Deep breaths don't help as much, now. The air is an enemy as much as any darkspawn. When she opens her eyes, Cullen's looking at her oddly, concerned and watchful and measuring her with his eyes. "What?" she grits out through her teeth, impatient.

Any softness drains from his expression in an instant. "Nothing."

"Good." Therrin swings her staff into place. "Then stop wasting time."

She turns her back on him and heads down the hall toward the broodmothers. The mana pooling inside her is reassuring, soothing, she really _can_ do this alone if she has to. She doesn't look back, and from the sound of his footsteps Cullen doesn't follow, not at first.

Why _that_ goes through her like the cold steel of a sword, Therrin doesn't care to think about.

When they reach the square-room they can see the broodmothers beneath them, reeking but stationary in the lyrium-water slurry, great chains reaching up through the ceiling to where the lyrium construct hangs.

"What do you think happens if that drops?" Sigrun asks.

"We run," Anders says, his face the color of old milk. "And hope we get far enough away before the lyrium hits us and our brains dribble out our ears."

Sigrun doesn't tear her eyes away from the contraption above them. "Dwarves are resistant—"

"Lucky you." When Anders glances over his expression is sharp. "It would do the trick, all right. _If_ we survived. That is on the agenda, I hope, getting out of this whole thing alive?"

"Definitely." Therrin surveys the room, trying not to think about anything but the task of dropping the lyrium, not about the broodmothers moaning down below or what they once might have been, not about the new severity in Cullen's posture or how it's eerily reminiscent of Greagoir (the two figures superimpose in her mind, overlapping and blurred and she winces at the image before she manages to force it from her brain). It's Nathaniel who finds the moss, glowing in what looks like a niche but proves to be a passageway out. Therrin can feel the ghost of a breeze, just a little, the distant smell of sun-warmed dirt tickling her nose. It can't be a long path to the surface.

Sinkholes, Therrin thinks. The ground cracking open like an egg, segments of the Deep Roads exposed.

With a way out at hand, the task seems easier. Therrin and Anders fire off spells at the chains, eyeing the exit as the others wait in the passage. When the first chain snaps the lyrium construct lurches dangerously, swinging above them like a chained bear trying to thrash its way to freedom.

And then it all goes wrong in a heartbeat. Another chain gives way and instead of just swinging in place the horrible contraption plunges, snapping the other two chains as though they were spider-silk. Therrin starts running before it hits the bottom and suddenly the passage feels too full of bodies, all pushing and jostling in the frantic race to get out, a jumble of shouts and shoves as the chamber floods with lyrium-fire. There's sunlight ahead, dim against the blue-light of the lyrium but steady, and over the sound of the explosion Therrin hears the rumble of stone as the ground starts to shake and the Deep Roads begin to give way. Cullen's hand closes around her arm again, pulling, and this time she doesn't try to shake him off because running for dear life takes priority.

Momentum more than anything else seems to bear them out into the sunlight, staggering and coughing violently, and when they reach fresh air Therrin doubles over, breathing hard. Anders sprawls on his back in the dust, arms flung wide and looking exhausted as Nathaniel slumps against the remnant of a pillar, and for a moment everyone is too busy sucking down gulps of clean air to speak.

Sigrun sighs in what sounds like contentment, looking at the newly-collapsed corridor. "Well. It's been fun, but I should probably get going."

Oghren snorts. "Got a hot date?"

Sigrun gives him a withering look. "Yes. With death."

Therrin grasps for words, trying to think through the lingering haze in her brain. "You're leaving?"

Sigrun gives a little half-shrug. "Legion of the Dead, remember? It isn't the kind of thing you walk away from."

The details of battle seem blurry, now, all running together and dim, but they'd all survived. To fight darkspawn like that and live, Sigrun would have to be more capable by half than almost anyone she knows. Therrin tries to scrape together whatever dignity she might have left, and asks, "Would you want to join the Wardens?"

Sigrun seems taken aback. "Join the Wardens?"

"Yes." Now that it's been said the idea gains momentum, racing through her brain. She needs more Wardens, desperately, and Sigrun seems a good fighter and a practical sort. "Things usually go a lot better than this," she explains.

Anders raises his head, expression incredulous. "No they don't."

"A little better than this," Therrin corrects.

"No they _don't._"

"Anders," she chides.

But Sigrun just looks thoughtful. "Can you belong to the Legion and the Grey Wardens at the same time, do you think?"

Therrin glances over at Cullen, but his head's buried in his hands and she can't see his face, his shoulders heaving as he breathes. "I think it's up to you," she says at last. "Either way, you'll die fighting the darkspawn."

A lopsided grin splits Sigrun's face. "You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl, Commander." She thinks for a moment, eyes on Kal'Hirol. "All right. I'm in."

With the addition of a new recruit and the lack of anyone dying… maybe it's good enough, she thinks. A victory, even if it doesn't feel very victorious. Cullen keeps his distance and doesn't look at her as they leave Kal'Hirol behind, but everyone is alive and the darkspawn army is dead. Maybe it's good enough.

Maybe it will have to be.


	18. Mornings After

It's not quite mid-afternoon on their trek back from Kal'Hirol when they see the farm in the distance, the buildings huddled close together like cattle hunched against the wind. Unspeakably exhausted and with weariness reflected on the faces of each of her companions, Therrin calls for a change in direction.

The old farmer and his family seem startled at the ragged cluster of strangers on his doorstep, distrustful at first, but the darkspawn make everyone jumpy. At their introduction as Wardens the farmer's demeanor changes in an instant. With the promise of his farm guarded for the night against the darkspawn he offers up all the hospitality of his home, apologizing repeatedly that he doesn't have room enough in the house, doesn't have food enough prepared, but Therrin is too tired to care. The barn they sleep in is clean and well-tended, a look to it like something weathered to a fine sheen under the hands of generations.

When she sleeps, she dreams of lyrium.

Morning brings its own sort of misery. As soon as her eyes fly open she bolts for the barn door, barely making it outside before her stomach turns itself inside out in wracking heaves. Her hands shake as she braces them against her knees, feeling desperately as though her body's trying to reject everything she ever put into it, eyes streaming and nose running and coughing out sludge that spasms from her lungs with a sluggish fire.

Cullen has gone from pale to sallow, his eyes dull and thoughts turned inward. It rankles beneath her skin, stokes the flames of an irritated grudge at the thought that he'd called her out of control. She tries to sharpen the feeling into anger because anger, at least, is productive, but the feeling is too poorly directed, less the hot fire of righteous anger and more a shrinking sort of humiliation.

Before they head out Therrin excuses herself and slips out to the nearby creek to wash. On the bank of the creek the grass grows thick and tall, obscuring the view of the farmhouse, and after a moment's hesitation Therrin decides that if she can't see them, they can't see her. She slumps down on the creek-bank, groaning with malaise and leaning down to cup the cold-running water in her hands, splashing her face in hopes that it might make her feel even slightly less wretched.

"You're a hypocrite." Anders' voice startles her and she jumps, but her instincts are off enough that she doesn't jump well or far. When he comes into view he looks terrible, but also smug, and Anders being smug can't be a good thing.

"You're a sneak," Therrin retorts, and then, a moment too late, "and I'm not a hypocrite."

Anders stretches gingerly, as though every joint protests the motion. "Oh, yes you are. All that high-minded nonsense about templars being useful, being _necessary_, and the first time one uses those necessary and oh-so-useful talents on you, you turn into a ogre and almost tear his face off."

"I didn't—"

"It's just nice to know," Anders goes on blithely, "that the rules apply to everyone else, and not to you."

Therrin stares at him, stunned. "You're not actually on his side, are you?"

Anders snorts. "I'd rather gnaw off my own foot than side with Cullen on anything, including the color of the sky and whether or not water is wet. No, I just couldn't pass up the chance to tell you that you're being an utter ninny."

"Go crawl in a hole and die," Therrin grumbles, rubbing her temples and feeling incredibly uncharitable.

A weak grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Is that an order? Touchy. We are going to Amaranthine though, aren't we? I've certain essentials to buy. My socks are more hole than sock, anymore, and you should see the state of my smallclothes."

Therrin blinks, head stuffed with cotton. "I thought you didn't wear—"

His grin widens. "Been thinking about it, have you?" Therrin splashes creek-water in his direction and he jumps away from it, making a face. After one final "hypocrite!" he disappears into the tall grass. Therrin sighs, raking her wet hands through her hair and trying to rally the will to get up and keep going.

-oOo-

Every inch of Cullen's skin itches as though he's been bitten by ants and every step they take toward Amaranthine seems a new, fresh torment. The blazing sunlight lances down into the backs of his eyes, pitiless and unavoidable, and though the day is only warm Cullen feels as though he's burning up. Sweat drips into his eyes and stings, trickling along his skin and undershirt and running tracks through the lyrium-dust on his body. Earlier he'd been too tired to think of washing, numb to feeling and exhausted beyond thought, but now with a meal in his belly and a few hours of sleep behind him he wishes he had. It's all he can do to keep from tearing off his armor and padding right there in the road, and he clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering which is stupid, because he feels like he's on fire.

Beside him, Nathaniel glances over, looking wary and edging away. Cullen doesn't imagine the expression on his face is anything friendly, not just now. At least Anders keeps his distance.

Therrin, for once, brings up the rear. It had seemed strange at first but Cullen hadn't questioned, and she'd given no indication of wanting either company or conversation. In any case, he hadn't felt much like providing either one. Now the idea nags at him that they have a history all wrapped up between themselves and lyrium and he only half-remembers the worst of it, and that she's probably hanging behind him so that she won't have him at her back if he tries to murder her.

Bitterness feels poisonous in his mouth, makes him grimace and glare over his shoulder. _She_ was the one who was out of control; _she_ was the one who would have killed them all and gone out like a doused torch if he hadn't acted. But when she meets his eyes there isn't the slightest trace of gratitude on her face, only silent reproach before she looks away. Just then he could shake her. If she'd been able to think, if she'd seen herself, she'd have known why he had to do it. If she'd had to feel the way he felt when he thought she was going to die, she would understand.

The sight of the city gates can't come soon enough. They take lodgings in a little inn on the west end of town, and though it's still early in the evening they slink off in separate directions with relief.

With nothing else to do, Cullen heads for his own room. It's a mercy, probably, to have a separate room from Therrin. Just now he feels volatile, as though he's brimming over with a dark, malignant energy and they might explode if they touch. He strips to the waist and washes as best as he can at the basin, and then stretches out flat on the bed, shivering and hot as shudders work their way through his skin.

He had known it might hurt. He had known he might pay for his decision not to leave Kal'Hirol at the first breath of lyrium. He had not known how terrifying the enormity of his hunger for lyrium would be afterward, not until now with it roaring in his ears and burning its way through his body. Before there hadn't been an option—there had simply been no more lyrium, there was nothing he could do about it—but now in Amaranthine there is choice, a seductive prospect hanging in his mind like a glittering jewel. There are potion-sellers here with bottles and bottles of lyrium, there is a supplier with a pile of the dust, there is probably at least a bottle or two of it between Anders and Therrin.

He could get more if he wanted to, and oh Maker does he want to. His fingers clench in the blanket beneath him as he grits his teeth and forces himself to inaction. It's the right thing to do, lying here, steeling himself to misery, even if every nerve in his body screams otherwise.

The seconds tick by with agonizing slowness and the more he thinks about it the less he can think about anything else. It would feel better, just for a while: the familiar flash of incredible clarity going through his brain, the easing of his muscles from this horrible tension as though he's stretched on a rack and being pulled slowly apart. There's money in his pack, not enough for much but enough for some. Some is better than this emptiness that scratches along his insides like the claws of a trapped animal.

He'd been past this, he thinks, eyes squeezed shut. If they'd turned back when he'd first caught the scent of lyrium on the air, if Therrin hadn't insisted on going on…

Anger surges up in a wave, sickening and hot. This is her doing. She should have turned back for all their sakes and now she has the temerity to be angry at him for saving her life. Cullen rolls off the bed before the idea to do so can really coalesce, storming out of his room and leaving the door gaping like an open mouth behind him. Therrin's door isn't locked and he barrels in without knocking and slams it behind himself, ready as he turns to shout at her before his eyes even find her.

There's a moment's shock across her face that twists even as he watches, into something dark and unsurprised, something like the same toxic energy driving him on. "What do you want?"

"_More_," he admits before he can think not to, but it sounds like weakness and he won't let her dwell on it. "Why didn't you turn back?"

"I had a job to do," she says, grim as death. When she pours a drink and downs it, her hands aren't steady. "I did it. You should have turned around when I told you to."

"If I had you'd be dead right now," he says, trying to be still and failing. "You and everyone under your command. Is that what you wanted?"

She doesn't look at him for what feels like a long time, each second crawling like an insect down his spine. When she does, the glare she turns on him is flat. "You know it isn't."

"Then why—"

"What do you want?" she demands again. "Do you want me to say I'm sorry?"

"I want you to understand—" he begins, but she laughs and there's nothing funny in the sound.

"I understand this is the second time you've come after me with a sword," she says, and looks over his body where the strap should be but isn't. "Did you mean to come in here unarmed or was that a mistake?"

The ground seems to lurch from under his feet at the words, so full of bitterness they ache in his ears. "No," he says, momentarily at a loss. He shouldn't have come. It's all going wrong faster than he can follow and there is only one thing he can think of that could help. "No," he says again, and turns to go.

Therrin catches hold of his arm. "Wait." When he tries to shake her off she doesn't let go, stubborn as ever. "No, don't."

He shivers in place but stops, waiting for the next volley of poison. She searches his face and he doesn't meet her eyes, and when she releases his arm she does the last thing he expects:  she puts her hands on either side of his face and pulls him down for a kiss. He doesn't respond at first, almost as repelled as he is confused, but he's burning up and she is cold, and her mouth tastes of liquor and faintly of lyrium and it's more than he can stand.  

The kiss becomes a searing, merciless thing that leaves Cullen dizzy, makes his knees want to buckle in the moment before he pushes her back to the wall (unarmed, he thinks dimly, unarmed) but she doesn't stop. When she pulls herself higher along his body she leaves scratches, the lyrium and sweat on his skin trickling into them and burning in long hot lines all down his flesh. He could shout with the pain of it, or swear; instead he traps her hands above her head to try and stop her.

It doesn't work. While she sucks his lower lip in between her teeth she pulls her hands free and tugs at his trousers, and before he can think she's stroking him hard and it isn't right but it doesn't seem to matter. It had never, never been like this but that doesn't stop him from pulling her against him or from stumbling to the rented bed, from pouring out all this nameless hurt into each other's bodies or from collapsing after, wordless and spent and almost more lonely than he can stand.

She watches him in the growing dark, after, like a cat might watch a wild dog. He squeezes his eyes closed and listens to his heart slow, and tries with everything in him to think of what to do. He had dragged them both out of the lake, dark and treacherous as it was. If he could he would drag them both out of this burning, terrible pit that lies between them, but he doesn't know how.

When he wakes some time later he feels frozen, naked and shivering as his head pounds for want of lyrium. Beside him is Therrin, awake and watching, and worse, between him and the door. He clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering and doesn't give in to the shameful urge to go, closing his eyes again to wait for the miserable night to be over.

He doesn't expect to sleep again. The next time he rouses it's still dark and his shivering has stopped, and he realizes Therrin is sleeping against his chest, one arm around his body and relaxed for all the world as though nothing is wrong. His thoughts seem to crawl through his mind, slow and dull. He could move her. He could push off her arm and slip out and she wouldn't wake.

He holds to her in the dark, instead, and makes himself still and doesn't leave.

In the morning he wakes to the sound of scratching, and in the dark behind his eyelids he has a brief moment of terror at the idea that getting out was a dream and in the waking world he's still trapped in Kal'Hirol. But no. The air is clean and there's a bed beneath him, not stone, and when he opens his eyes he finds the scratching is Therrin sitting at the table, writing. He sighs in an almost unspeakable relief and rubs a hand over his face, trying to work through the arid cracked feeling in his head. "Morning," he manages, voice rough.

Therrin looks at him over her shoulder, surprised. "Afternoon, actually."

Cullen glances to the window, where the light filtering in through the shutters is bright and high. He doesn't feel rested, not properly, despite having slept so long. He feels as though he'd spent the night thrashing his way through fever-dreams, shadows that burn off like fog, intangible in the light of day. He swallows and his throat feels raw, and every bit of him seems to ache. The sharp desire for the lyrium seems dull, now, a growl instead of a scream, but this… this, he can resist.

From here he can see himself in the little hanging mirror. He looks haggard and wan, a multicolored bruise spread out across his shoulder, dark hollows beneath his eyes. His chest and arms are a map of scratches and red marks, but if they hurt, it's indistinguishable from the overriding ache in the rest of his body.

Therrin leans over the table in concentration.

"What are you writing?" His voice cracks, and he reaches over for the water on the end table, drinking deeply and letting it wash the burn from his throat.

"A letter," Therrin answers distractedly. "Hold on." A few minutes later she finishes, setting aside the quill and leaving the letter to dry. "To Dagna," she continues. "She'd talked about moving mages to Orzammar before on account of the lyrium dust in the air. I thought she might be interested in knowing about Kal'Hirol." She turns in her chair and considers him a moment, all of the anger from the day before vanished as though it had never been. "Are you all right?"

There's an angry-looking red mark on her chest just at the edge of her robe, and other marks on her arms he can't remember if she might have got in the battle or… after. He swallows a dishonest _yes._ "I will be," he settles for instead, and hopes it's true. She nods at that, slowly, and Cullen fidgets with the cup in his hands, unable to give voice to the hundred things pressing in on his mind. "What about you?"

"I think I will be." He grimaces, at that. It's painful to think how close a thing it had been. If he had hesitated five seconds longer and let her cast her spell. If he'd gone out to the potion-shop instead of to her room. If the argument between them had gone on one more poisonous minute before they had given up on words entirely. 

Matters between them had never seemed so fragile before, even at their worst. There isn't any outside interference to blame it on, either, no one come to drag them to Aeonar, no one come to take Therrin away. Just themselves. He looks up to Therrin, still watching him, and asks, "What now?"

She hesitates. "I don't know." Hopelessness surges up from inside him, making it hard to swallow as she abandons the desk and joins him on the bed, sitting cross-legged beside him. His eyes catch on a smear of mud on her knee, and for a moment all he can think is that she never would have stood for being so dirty before. "We survived," she points out, picking at the blanket before she meets his eyes.

"Barely."

She smiles at that, for some reason. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens." The smile fades as she watches him. "It really isn't usually this bad." He looks at her, skeptical. "Sometimes we have parties," she says, the lightness too forced for real humor. "There are supposed to be gryphons, but I've never seen them."

Cullen frowns. "You sound like you're trying to convince me to stay."

Therrin hesitates again, looking caught. "I would understand if you wouldn't want to," she says at last, watching him. "I know this isn't what you had in mind when you left the Tower."

"No," he admits, rolling the cup between his hands and trying to sort it out. When he'd followed her from the Tower he had thought it would be quiet, a peaceful life mostly free of the sharp-edged choices facing them as templar and mage. But as much as he wants never to have to live through anything like Kal'Hirol again, he also doesn't want to be elsewhere. "I don't want to leave you, if that's what you're thinking."

She looks surprised for a moment. "I wondered."

"I love you," he reminds her, in case she's forgotten.

"I know that," she says, mollifying, "and I love you too. But it doesn't mean you have to put yourself through all this. Fighting the darkspawn is… it's hard," she admits. "But it's not usually this…" she grasps for words.

"Difficult?"

She shakes that away, impatient. "When it hurts you, it usually hurts you on the outside. Not on the inside." Her gaze drops, not before he sees her troubled expression. "There's nothing I can do about it except go on. It's the only thing I know how to do. But that doesn't mean you've got to do it, too. You never made any oaths," she finishes, "not to the order, not to me."

_I could_, he thinks, but if ever there was the wrong time for that conversation, it would probably be now. He mulls it over slowly, nodding. "I still don't want to leave you."

Her smile is a bit rueful. "I didn't want you to," she admits, and moves to rest against his side so he puts his arm around her.

With her head on his shoulder it feels better. Less fragile, somehow, and he doesn't know if it's because of some kind of recovery they've made in the last few minutes or if they were always stronger than he knew. He rubs her arm absently before he notices the bruise beneath his hand, and frowns in worry at the realization. "You haven't healed."

"I haven't cast." At this angle he can't see her face. "It didn't seem like a good idea for a while."

He lets the admission pass in silence, grateful for the moment for the feeling of coming back from the edge of disaster to rest in a place of peace. "When you can," he begins, voice low, "if you're able…"

She raises her head, catching on. "Are you hurt?"

"I've been better," he says, and leaves it at that. After a moment he feels the pull of a spell beginning, sees it a second later when light begins gathering at the tips of her fingers. When it washes over them he sees their bodies outlined in blue, the small careful spell seeking out the hurt places inside of him and leaving them mended. The overriding ache evaporates and his head clears, and he presses his eyes closed in relief.

When the spell fades she stirs beside him, climbing off the bed. "I should gather up the others," she says, and considers him briefly. "Better?"

"Much," he says, and means it. "Thank you."

She smiles and takes up her staff, and as they set off into the city the nightmares of the day before seem to bleed away to nothing under the light of afternoon. They wait by the Chanter's board for the others to regroup, Nathaniel coming first, then Sigrun, and then Anders is the only one still missing. Cullen meanders around the terrace, waiting, wondering if they ought to go look for him when the potted plant over by the chanter catches his eye.

The chanter can't say _here, do you want this plant? Please take it_ because there's nothing even close in the Chant for her to say, but the message seems clear enough. When Cullen gives it an inquiring look and puts a hand out to the leaves the chanter deposits it in his arms, nodding in encouragement, and though it seems an odd thing to be pleased about, he takes the plant anyway.

It will be a relief to get home, he thinks as they make for the city gates. He isn't quite sure when Vigil's Keep became home, but it doesn't matter. At least there it's familiar, and the prospect of having guards to train is something to look forward to.

But as they head out of the south gate of the city a templar approaches, a weary look to him as though he'd been walking a long time. As Therrin and Anders eye him uneasily he pulls out a letter from his pack, handing it over to Cullen who sees _Therrin Amell_ written neatly on the front, and hands it off to her in turn. "From the First Enchanter, ser," the templar says, and turns at once to go.

Cullen's heart sinks, going icy and clenching somewhere around his stomach.

Therrin tears open the envelope, frowning, and her expression only gets more severe the longer she reads. "'Pass this message on to Cullen,' _ha_," she murmurs at last, darkly. She glances up, annoyed, but when she looks at Cullen her face seems to soften. "It's Wynne," she says, which he had already guessed. "She's coming to Vigil's Keep."


	19. Summerday

It's good to be home.

And not just Vigil's Keep, Therrin thinks, leaning against the entrance to the courtyard. She watches Cullen attempt to walk Stephen through the very basics of how to hold a short wooden practice sword. Stephen looks delirious with joy, bounding along beside Cullen with every step, and Therrin doesn't bother to suppress a grin at his enthusiasm, or at Cullen's patience in the face of the overeager slashing as Stephen fights with the air.

Watching the two of them brings its own sense of contentment, a quiet sense of being at home that has little to do with place.

Stephen overreaches on a forward lunge, falling, and in his hurry to correct he windmills backwards even as Cullen reaches forward to catch him. Cullen takes the flailing smack to the face with little more than a sigh, and Therrin bites her lip in amusement at Stephen's sudden, flushed humility. She can't hear his quiet-spoken words from here but doesn't need to. It's easy enough to imagine Cullen's tolerant _this is why you have to be careful, pay attention._

Stephen's shoulders slump, but only for a moment. He's back to his earlier cheer in no time, if slightly more restrained than before.

A surge of affection leaves Therrin quiet, watching in solitude as the minutes slip past. Not that Cullen and Stephen being together is anything new, precisely, but it feels as though she's seeing them both in an unexpected light: the way Stephen's eyes shine when Cullen nods in approval, his wholehearted adoration when Cullen carefully wraps Stephen's fingers around the wooden hilt of the sword, demonstrating the proper grip. And when was the last time Cullen had smiled so much, or so easily?

Therrin feels a stubborn sense of melancholy at the sight of them, the prodding of responsibility an unwelcome thought. As sweet as this is, as close-held to her heart like a whispered secret, it wouldn't be enough for an arling's worth of people. The idea of living through the darkspawn invasion only to be expected to set all this aside one day, to part ways with Cullen in favor of some high-born stranger, to let Stephen become second-best to some yet-unborn child with the right blood… the thought makes something denial twist inside her, a dark and ugly feeling.

Varel had been circumspect in his description of reports, trickling in here and there from the corners of Ferelden. Hero or not, a mage arlessa runs counter to all tradition, and there are those vocal proponents of tradition among the nobility who feel as though they've been pushed too far already. She knows the most expedient route to security lies in the marriage to a noble, a popular one, from an old family, and handing matters over to him.

Expedient doesn't always mean right, though.

Stephen mimics Cullen's posture, though his practice-sword is clumsy in his hands and Cullen looks as though he was born wielding a blade.

She could marry Cullen, she thinks idly. She watches them practice, longing. It's a sweet thought. If he said yes (and he may not, she thinks, wondering if there are edges to a templar's vows she hasn't yet run up against), it could settle them, cement all this between them into permanence.

But he didn't want any of this in the first place. He'd only come here for her sake; marrying him would throw him to the wolves. He'd never be able to get away from politics and Maker knows she can't burden him with what she can barely tolerate herself. His life's been unfair enough, she thinks. If she loves him she can hardly make things worse for him.

The idea spins in futile circles in her mind, yielding no answers. Finally Therrin leaves them to their practice. The sound of their laughter fades behind her as she heads to her office, away from the sunlight and into the bowels of Vigil's Keep, to the massive desk and the endless responsibilities awaiting her.

-oOo-

Summerday is a time of merriment, a day for everyone at Vigil's Keep to heave a sigh and relax for a day. All those not on duty are given leave to come and go as they please, to eat and drink from the mountain of food set out in the dining hall, and to enjoy themselves as they see fit.

It's also, Cullen thinks, curling his fingers around his fourth (fifth?) drink, a day for weddings.

He could've been getting married today instead of sitting here talking to Varel, if he'd just asked. If Anders hadn't had to interrupt, if Therrin hadn't been oblivious and then called away and kept busy every moment since they'd come back from Amaranthine, if he could just wrap his tongue around the words and then by some miracle just spit it out. "That's the whole problem," Cullen says, feeling vaguely as though he's repeating himself. Perhaps he is? "I haven't been able to say it."

"Yes, you'd mentioned as much. A couple of times." Varel rubs his forehead with one hand, sober as… well, as a templar, Cullen thinks, which is unexpectedly funny because he's a templar and he's most decidedly not sober. "I think," Varel says, and Cullen looks up hopefully. "You might be talking about this to the wrong person."

"I can't talk to Anders," Cullen protests before knocking back the last of his drink. "And Nathaniel doesn't talk, and Dog listens but thinks I should just get on with having puppies—children—" Cullen shakes his head as though he could clear his thoughts. "But you know Therrin. She likes you," he insists.

"Does she?" Varel sounds amused.

"Yes." Cullen raises his mug to his lips and frowns when he finds it empty. "I know she does. 'S why I came to you."

"Lucky me," Varel mumbles, looking wry. "Perhaps you should discuss this with her, then. Later."

"Do you think she'd say yes?" Cullen frets, nervous. "With all the… politics. She's an arlessa."

Varel raises an eyebrow. "So I'm told."

"Would it ruin everything if we did?" Cullen asks, toying with his mug and trying not to sound as worried as he feels. "I don't want to make things worse."

Varel makes a thoughtful noise. "No, I don't believe it would ruin everything. There are options, means of mitigating the…" Cullen blinks at him, not entirely following. Varel gives him a look, mild and a bit exasperated, and to Cullen's benumbed brain it seems vaguely Greagoir-ish. (But he had never talked to Greagoir like this, could never have sat there and had a drink with his father and talked about women. Things could have been different, if Cullen had only known.) "If you're committed to the idea, we can discuss it another time. When you're…"

"Sober," Cullen supplies.

"Yes."

"I should talk to Therrin," Cullen decides, setting the mug down a little bit too forcefully. It hits the table with a resounding thunk.

Varel frowns. "Now?"

"Right now." Cullen stands, feeling unsteady, as though he's grown since he sat down and doesn't quite know how to handle his extra height. He won't wait another minute. He will make it the right time somehow, it will work… or rather, it would, if he could find her.

Vigil's Keep is only so large but she isn't at any of her usual places, and an ale-sick sort of clarity is just beginning to seep into the edges of his brain when he runs into Anders. "Therrin's missing," Cullen says. "Have you seen her?"

Anders is flushed, ruddy and… drunk? Definitely drunk, from the smell. Cullen has a moment's irritation at the thought of him walking around Vigil's Keep drunk when the darkspawn could attack at any time. "Sod Therrin," Anders bites out. "I can't find my cat."

"Your cat?"

"About so big, orange, more brains than you? My _cat_, idiot." Anders looks worried. Just then Cullen can't be offended. "I don't suppose you've seen him."

"No," Cullen admits. In a flash of ale-induced goodwill, he offers, "I'll help you find him if you help me find Therrin."

Anders considers it, frowning at the ground. "She's not still mousing the wall, is she?"

Cullen tries to put the words together but they don't make sense. "Mousing?"

A grin splits Anders' face. "Neat little trick, actually. Y'know the dwarf fixing the walls? There's cracks and holes everywhere, a total nightmare to fix. So Therrin shifts into a mouse. Climbs up the bigger cracks, sees how bad they are, tells the dwarves about it. It was my idea."

But a horrified suspicion is beginning to churn in Cullen's brain. "Therrin's a mouse."

"Sometimes, yes," Anders shrugs.

"And I can't find her." Anders frowns. Cullen swallows hard and goes on, "And you can't find your cat."

"What in the Fade are… oh." Anders blanches.

It's a mad scramble through the hallway as the pair of them run out to the courtyard, bursting through the arched doorway and blinking at the brightness of the light. "There!"

Ser Pounce-a-lot is sitting by a crack in the stone wall, tail twitching in anticipation. He hisses in annoyance when Anders scoops him into his arms, and leaps back down and bats at the hole. "Bad cat," Cullen says severely, hauling him back and getting a swipe of razor-sharp claws near his earlobe for his trouble. But the cat only twists in Cullen's grip, wriggling like a fish and leaping away.

"He's not a bad cat," Anders argues, reaching out to snag the cat and holding him close. "He's a good kitty. Aren't you, Ser Pounce-a-lot?"

Cullen ignores him. Instead, he drops to his hands and knees, pressing his face to the base of the crack. "Therrin?"

From the recesses of the stone comes a squeak, and Cullen doesn't know if it's just his imagination that makes it sound hoarse and desperate, but in the dimness he can just make out the shine of a mouse's beady eyes. He holds out a hand and mouse-Therrin scrabbles onto it, claws clinging as he stands, and Ser Pounce-a-lot gives a very irritated meow and makes one last lunge before Therrin changes.

Cullen, unprepared for the sudden shift in weight, drops her. Therrin sprawls unceremoniously on her backside in the dirt, harried-looking and glaring at Ser Pounce-a-lot as he lands with far more grace on the ground beside her, sniffing her arm in disappointment.

"Are you alright?" Cullen asks, worried.

"I'd have been better if you hadn't dropped me," she says, voice raw and sort of squeaky, and though he doesn't mean to Cullen laughs in surprise.

"You're all squeaky," Anders sniggers.

"Like a mouse," Cullen supplies by way of explanation, and tries to bite the inside of his mouth so he won't laugh again. Therrin gives them both a dirty look and rolls to her feet, dusting off her backside as she stalks away, and Cullen feels his little flare of romantic hope deflate a little more with every step she takes, subsiding entirely as she disappears into the keep.

-oOo-

Vigil's Keep seems to be alive with light and merriment as the evening progresses, sounds trickling in through the sliver-thin opening of Therrin's office door. There are games going on somewhere, a tournament and some bizarre variation on chess she'd never heard of.

There will be a lot of hangovers in the morning. Not that she misses joining in, not really. Ale-induced revelry isn't appealing (it isn't, she tells herself tiredly) and there's simply so much to be done. It would be easier if it was just the darkspawn, or just the arling. As it is the two halves of it seem hopelessly entangled, the darkspawn driving the banns to demand action, the city filled to bursting with those who've abandoned their homesteads for the safety of Amaranthine's walls. The nobles are nervous at the thought of their people displaced, leaving some lands nigh-abandoned, others overpacked, and they all seem to expect Therrin to do something about it but she doesn't know what there is to do.

Fight the darkspawn, yes, but with the broodmothers destroyed the darkspawn seem to have abated, harrying isolated farms and staying mostly out of sight. She would strike if she knew where, or how. And this on top of Esmerelle's conspiracy.

Not that Therrin had necessarily believed the whole fealty business, the oaths of support given out of expectation and not true sentiment. Still, it had been an unpleasant meeting with Varel, working through their options. There hadn't been enough proof, not with Ser Tamra dead. All Therrin can think to do is wait, and give Esmerelle enough rope to hang herself.

"Mraow?" The door creaks open. She'd meant to have that thing oiled. The sound of it makes the back of her teeth hurt when Ser Pounce-a-lot saunters in, tail high.

"Oh," Therrin says flatly. "You."

"Mraow." The cat leaps up onto Therrin's desk, paws pushing carefully stacked piles of vellum into disarray.

"You tried to kill me," Therrin complains. "If I were you I'd be hiding."

Ser Pounce-a-lot gives her an inscrutable look, and for a moment Therrin feels rather ridiculous. It's not as though he's a mabari. He's not intelligent like Dog, he can't understand her. But with an aloof sort of feline dignity he ambles closer, sniffing the air, and a purr begins to rumble from his throat like a miniature avalanche. Therrin leans back in surprise when he pads into her lap, pushing his head up under her chin and rubbing against her. This close he's very soft, even as gangly and bony as he is underneath the fur. The thrum of his purring is strangely relaxing, tugging at some tight knot of tension and threatening to unravel her grim mood altogether.

"I don't even like cats," she tells him.

Ser Pounce-a-lot blinks at her innocently.

"You tried to _eat me_."

"Mraow?"

He collapses into her arms, stretching out languidly and purring in contentment. He wraps his forelegs about her hand, pink tongue sweeping along her thumb in rough scrapes, and Therrin doesn't want to smile but it tickles. "You're just seeing if I taste the same when I'm not a mouse, aren't you?"

And cats can't grin, not really, but it seems to Therrin that Ser Pounce-a-lot smirks before he gives one last affectionate rub to her thumb and sinks his needle-sharp teeth into the flesh of her hand.

-oOo-

When Nathaniel's father was alive, Summerday had always been spent in the city. It's odd to hold a celebration here, even one as casual as this. Without a crowd it doesn't feel quite like Summerday at all, without the little parade up the chantry steps and new banners streaming from the parapets. This celebration feels oddly anticlimactic, and though Nathaniel isn't much one for parties in the first place, he misses the way it used to be.

Foolish, he thinks, forcing down the mournful little idea. It wouldn't be appropriate to hold a lavish holiday with the darkspawn still around. This is decidedly more practical.

In any case, Sigrun seems impressed by the evening's entertainment. She'd sat down beside him, wide-eyed and clutching an oversized tankard of hard liquor, feet swinging and kicking at the rungs of her chair. "I like the idea of having holidays at the beginning of seasons. And the idea of seasons, really," she says. "You don't get mixed up, having the weather change all the time?"

"No," he says, pushing his empty cup around idly. "We get used to it. Usually by the time we're out of childhood."

She leans her elbows on the table. "Is this all the party-throwing there is? Because this seems kind of tame."

Nathaniel blinks. "Tame? It's a holy day, for some."

"For some? Not for you?"

"I…" Nathaniel's mother would've been horrified. "I'm not particularly pious, no."

Sigrun sips at her tankard, surveying the room. "Is this the kind of party you enjoy, then?"

Nathaniel snorts. "No. Not really." I don't care for parties, he almost says. It isn't entirely true, he thinks, memory rushing back like a flood, because parties distract people and when you're young and foolish and all the adults are distracted you can slip off together, find a dark corner or an empty room and for a stolen, breathless minute let curious eyes and hands do as they want.

"I'd rather have sex," Sigrun says frankly, looking over the assembled crowd. "No offense to your party, of course," she adds as an afterthought.

Nathaniel feels his eyebrows climb. "None taken."

Sigrun sizes him up. "Would you want to? You're handsome enough. And it's been a while. Not many opportunities when you're… you know. Dead."

Nathaniel swallows around the sudden parched feeling of his throat, mind sticking in place on the wrong part of Sigrun's statement. "You think I'm handsome?"

"Sure." When Sigrun grins her cheeks dimple, stretching her tattoos. "Though this close I can only see up your nose, really." Her eyes really are astonishingly blue as she glances up at him with a merry half-smirk. "Is that a no?"

"I…" Stunned, he casts about for the right answer, but nothing makes its way through the blockage in his throat except, "It would be my honor." Sigrun beams at him, dimpling again prettily, and takes his hand on the walk upstairs.


	20. Friends and Strangers

It's early when Nathaniel wakes, his mouth open and his face sticking to the linens. He squints his eyes open at the sound of movement, blinking hard against the grittiness of sleep and dragging himself upright in bed.

"Morning," Sigrun says, pulling on her smallclothes and looking far more rested than Nathaniel feels. Last night in the dark they hadn't taken much time for looking, and in the thin morning light the sight of her body is a little surprising, all compact curves of muscle and skin. "I didn't think I'd wake you." She slips a breastband over her head and wrestles into it, humming off-key.

Nathaniel just blinks, utterly uncertain of what to do. He should say something, he thinks, though he doesn't know what. "Sigrun, I—"

She glances at him, quirks a grin. "That good?"

"Ah," Nathaniel manages, grasping for words.

Sigrun beats him to the punch. "Last night was fun," she says, all casual. "But we probably shouldn't do it again." She hops a little on one leg as she pulls on trousers, then straightens to fasten them. "I like you," she offers brightly. "Don't get me wrong." She disappears into the cloth of her tunic before her head pops out the neckline. "But you seem like a complicated sort, and I'm… well, I'm not. I'd like to be friends, if we can," she says, and when she looks at him her eyes are guileless and very blue. "You're an amazing fighter, and I do like you."

"I…" Nathaniel's brain tries to race and fails, slogging through the remnants of sleep, but Sigrun is watching him expectantly. "Yes," he manages. "Of course."

"Good." She nods, looking relieved. "Will you be at my Joining, later?"

"Yes," Nathaniel promises, trying to rake his hair back into place without being too obvious about it.

"Good," Sigrun says again, pleased. "I'll see you then, I guess." She bends down to pick up her boots and carries them out, leaving and pulling the door closed behind her.

Nathaniel falls backwards into the rumpled blankets, faintly dazed and feeling stunned as though he'd been hit very hard by a small mountain. For a while he stares at the ceiling, trying in vain to sort out the wreck of his feelings—and it makes no sense to feel so dissatisfied, none at all—but the only conclusion he comes to is unhelpful. Nathaniel doesn't believe in curses, not really; there's no reason to think he'd been hit by one.

Telling himself so doesn't make him feel any better.

He finds the Commander in her office, writing, and when he edges in the doorway she glances up. "Nathaniel. Are you all right?"

"Fine," he lies, sitting in the chair across from her at her desk. "Fine." He doesn't feel like explaining that he doesn't want to be alone but that he also doesn't feel like being with anyone else, and so if she wouldn't mind just carrying on with her business in silence and just ignoring him entirely, that would be perfect. Out there in the keep there are people who look at him and see only a Howe and he doesn't want to face it, not then. What he really wants to do is lay his head down on the desk and shut everything else out for a while, to close his eyes and listen to the occasional rustle of parchment and breathe in the scents of wood and paper without a single thing being required of him.

It all seems rather pathetic. Instead of giving in to the impulse he leans back in the chair, the hard edge pressing against his shoulder blades. "Interesting holiday, yesterday."

"Mmm." She makes a face, not looking up from what she's reading. "I suppose so." Her eyes flick up and for a second he thinks she looked amused. "I almost got eaten by Anders' cat and Cullen fell asleep in the armory, singing. I imagine that counts as interesting enough." Nathaniel stares for a moment, wondering if she's joking, but it doesn't seem that she is. She pushes over the paper she'd been reading. "This came in just before you did. I'm thinking they might be stragglers from that smuggling ring we busted. It's not far, is it?"

Nathaniel scans the brief, scrawled request for soldiers, notification that there'd been a run-in with bandits. He knows the place. It's practically at Vigil's doorstep. "Not more than two miles, I think," Nathaniel answers. "Did you want to send out some of the soldiers?"

"No." The Commander takes back the letter, reading over it again. "I was actually thinking of going out myself, if I could find another fighter or two around here who isn't hung over." When she glances at him there's a grim sort of humor in the look. "Would you be up for a good brawl? I have to admit, I could stand to blast something into very small pieces."

It's the only thing that's seemed really appealing in days. Nathaniel pushes out of the chair in response, the dissatisfaction in his brain sharpening into something useful at the idea of action. "Give me two minutes," he answers. "I'll get my bow."

-oOo-

When Cullen wakes up his head feels foggy and thick, his shoulders stiff from having fallen asleep propped up against an empty weapon rack. When he ventures downstairs it's clear he's not the only one with a hangover. If anything, he must be one of the lucky ones, because at least he's vertical. Cullen takes a mug of tea outside and waits for his head to clear, leaning against a wall and watching Stephen play with one of the servants' children across the courtyard.

The long sticks in their hands aren't nearly as good as the wooden practice swords, but Stephen seems pleased to play fight anyway. Maybe he should be trained, Cullen thinks, and not just given a few lessons for the sake of indulging his eagerness. Maybe he ought to learn to use steel as effectively as magic. He'll talk to Therrin about it when she gets back, he decides, and squints up at the dark, fast-skimming clouds above.

He's deliberating over whether or not to call Stephen in on account of the distant rumbles of thunder when a guard strides up from the gates with a very angry-looking and very pregnant dwarf at his side. "Ser," the guard says.

The dwarf stands up on tiptoe to get a better view across the courtyard, seeming disappointed. "Are you one of the Wardens?" she asks, looking up at Cullen as though daring him to say no.

"No," Cullen says, and then, because it seems like excruciatingly bad manners to leave it at that, says, "may I help you with something?"

She tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear, eyes fixed on the inner gates of Vigil's Keep. "I'm looking for Oghren."

Cullen re-runs his memories of the morning through his head, poking at them to see if he'd passed Oghren at all, but… no. "I'm afraid I haven't seen him today," he replies. In Therrin's absence it feels natural enough to offer assistance, and at his offer the dwarf follows Cullen inside. "Have you traveled far?" he asks once they're inside the main hall, trying to make polite conversation while a maid fetches Oghren.

Her expression is grim. "From Denerim."

She seems rigid with tension, an odd look for someone so round. "Is Oghren expecting you?" he asks, trying again. "Do you have an appointment?"

From the corner of her eye she gives him a disgusted glare, as if he is the stupidest creature to ever crawl out of an oozing mass of pond scum. "No."

"Ah," Cullen says, and then decides that saying nothing at all seems to be the best course of action. He doesn't want to stand there any longer, but he doesn't want to leave her alone in the hall, either, and he begins to wish that he'd stayed out of the matter entirely.

After a few minutes a roll of thunder hammers at the keep, seeming to rattle the stones in their mortar. Before the sound quite dies away the hall doors are thrown open and Therrin hustles in, sopping wet and dragging Stephen by the hand with Nathaniel behind them. Therrin grins at him, soaked as she is, and the sight makes him smile in response, but her gaze falls on Felsi and her expression changes, draining into something decidedly less pleased. "Felsi."

The dwarf folds her arms across her chest. "Warden."

Cullen frowns, unsettled. You know each other, then, he thinks. For a moment he tries to calculate the breadth of Therrin's travels, the number of people she might know and how many occasions like this might be in his future, strangers showing up at his doorstep and turning out to be old acquaintances.

"I'm looking for Oghren," Felsi says, as though she's tired of repeating herself. "Is he here?"

Therrin nods slowly. "He's among the Wardens at Vigil's Keep, yes, but whether he's here at the moment—"

"Hold on to yer beard, woman," Oghren sniggers, holding tightly to the doorframe as he leans in to the hall. He doesn't look quite steady, and Cullen wonders if he's still drunk from yesterday's entertainments. Oghren peers at Felsi as though he can't quite make her out. "You here for some of the old Oghren, eh? One of the… heh… one of the wenches from…"

Felsi stiffens. "Oghren."

All of his bluster fails in an instant. "Fels?" He manages the distance from the doorway to just out of arms-reach of Felsi, swaying a little in place and looking as though someone had hit him in the head with a plank. "You… uh. You found me."

"You didn't make it easy, but yes," Felsi answers. "I should've figured out before that you'd run off with the Wardens."

_Run off?_ Cullen thinks, uncomfortable and confused. Hadn't Oghren said before that she'd run him out? When he glances at Therrin she looks perturbed, and after a silent exchange of glances with Stephen that means _go on, go get dry_, he shuffles away.

"C'mon, Felsi," Oghren wheedles, putting on a grin that doesn't seem to impress Felsi a bit. The smile dies and he seems to sober up, a little. "You know I wasn't cut out for the whole settling down thing."

The personal nature of the conversation makes Cullen uneasy. "Perhaps you might want to discuss this in private—"

"You should have said you weren't _cut out_ for it before you moved into my home and fathered a child," Felsi snaps, ignoring Cullen entirely.

"You think I wanted to play house with you?" Oghren growls, eyebrows drawing together. "You really thought it was gonna be lullabies and baby feet and… I'm a warrior. I kill things." He stops, rocking a little in place. "Whatever you thought it was gonna be like, that's your dream, not mine. I'm where I want to be."

Cullen watches as Felsi straightens, drawing herself to her full height. "Fine." She searches Oghren's face for a moment. Whatever she was looking for, she seems disappointed not to have found it. "I thought you might have left for your friend's sake, for another mission," she says, inclining her head at Therrin. "I could have understood that. I should've known you would only leave for yourself." When Oghren doesn't answer, Felsi grimaces, turning as sharply as she can and walking out the doors of the main hall, into the rain.

In the strained silence that follows, Oghren stares at the floor and Therrin stares at Oghren, and Cullen watches them both, confused. He'd known Oghren for months—he'd thought of him as strange in the Tower, friendly on the way to Lothering, as an ally at Vigil even if he was a danger to himself and everyone around him, given enough to drink—but for a moment it feels like a stranger in front of him. He can't fathom leaving the mother of his child without a word or an explanation, and he stares at Oghren, wholly repelled.

The silence snaps. "Can we _not_ send her out from Vigil's Keep in a thunderstorm?" Therrin demands, looking murderous. "There are darkspawn still on the roads."

Nathaniel nods and heads for the doors. "I'll fetch her."

Therrin rounds on Oghren, stiff with anger. "You lied to me."

Oghren glares at her balefully. "This sound like any of your business? _No_. Leave it, Commander."

"I thought you were going through a hard time," Therrin argues. "I thought you'd been worked over twice; I thought you needed time to get over it! Not that you'd brought it all on yourself!"

Oghren snorts, but he shifts, looking uncomfortable and very sullen. "So what, you threw me a pity party and got pissy that no one came?"

"I covered your ass when you couldn't be bothered to give a damn," Therrin insists, every word clear and cold. "I've made excuses for you the entire time you've been here. I looked the other way when you came this close to killing me, because you were my _friend._ I thought you needed time—"

"Don't recall asking you to play mommy," Oghren grouses, narrowing his eyes at her and still looking intoxicated. "You wanna cry and hold hands and talk about our _feelings_ or you want me to kill darkspawn? Cause I'm not here for the talking."

"I don't have any use for a fighter who's too drunk to remember which end of an axe to hold."

Oghren falters, blinking and scrunching up his face a second before anger takes back over. "So what, then, you want a medal? You put up with me, congratulations!"

"You did the same thing to Felsi that Branka did to you," Therrin says with no scrap of warmth at all in her voice; Oghren reels a little as though she'd punched him. "And you used my friendship as license to put us all in danger when you had no one to blame for being miserable but yourself. Why should I listen to anything you have to say?"

It takes Cullen a moment to remember where he had heard the name before, and in the time it takes for his memory to remind him that Branka was Oghren's wife, Oghren turns and gives Cullen a hard, dangerous glare. "You're gonna want to get while the getting's good."

When he glances to Therrin she nods.

_True story_, Oghren had said to Anders, once. _Dwarf attacks mage. Dwarf wins. _

It seems a poor idea to leave them to their own tempers, not when Oghren had proved so dangerous before. And that had just been an accident. He tries to push away the thought but it nags at his brain even as he retreats down the hallway, back to his own business and away from the sounds of raised voices from behind the closed door.

It's hours later before Therrin finds him, and then it's just for a moment at dinner, with all of them assembled before Sigrun's Joining. "I have news," Therrin says, looking weary and very unhappy and only standing at the table instead of joining them to eat. "Oghren isn't going to be with us anymore."

Cullen frowns, but before he can say anything Anders asks, "You mean he's left Vigil's Keep?"

"I mean he's left the Grey Wardens." The quiet after that is deeply uncomfortable. Cullen had thought the outcome of their argument might be unpleasant but hadn't expected anyone to leave. The Grey Wardens now number only three, Cullen thinks, and from the way everyone glances at Sigrun, he isn't the only one to have the thought.

Cullen hopes she survives the night.

-oOo-

It's very late when Cullen wakes up at the sound of the door opening. He squints at the wedge of light pouring in from the hallway but it's only Therrin, coming to bed. "How did it go?" he asks groggily, as she sits on the side of the mattress to peel off her boots.

"It went well." With her back turned, Cullen can't see much, but she grunts and there's the sound of a boot hitting the floor. "Sigrun's alive. We talked. She'll make a good Warden, I think." The second boot follows the first and without bothering to undress any further Therrin crawls under the blankets and sighs into the darkness.

He wonders if he ought to say something about Oghren but doesn't know quite what to tell her, and as Therrin only turns to her side and slides an arm around him before dropping off to sleep, he decides to let the matter go.

Certainly she doesn't seem inclined to talk about it, at least not to him. It isn't as though there isn't enough to occupy them both. In the days after Sigrun's Joining Cullen throws himself into the task of training the new recruits sent to Vigil's Keep, an undertaking he finds himself enjoying immensely. The task is concrete and immediate, the results tangible and rewarding, and Cullen can't help be pleased at the progress of the men. It's satisfying in a way he had hardly anticipated to take untrained material and mold it into something useful, to use his skills for the greater good.

He wishes he could tell Therrin about it, but she's hardly around. There isn't a lack of anything to do for her either, and he knows it—a lord's daughter to rescue, darkspawn sightings to investigate, a dozen tasks to see to that absolutely demand her intervention and no one else's—but it means that she's only rarely at Vigil's keep, and then only long enough for a meal and a night's sleep before heading out early again the next day.

Life falls into a quiet pattern: he gets up early, he trains recruits, he goes over the keep's affairs with Varel. In the evenings, he reads with Stephen and tends his armor and sword, and after Stephen goes to bed Cullen flips through books of botany trying to figure out why his potted plant seems to be dying.

It's just a plant, Cullen knows, but as day after day slips by and nothing he tries seems to help, the lack of success eats at him quietly.

The pattern is interrupted by the Wardens swooping back in to deliver a message, to drop off a heavy sack of gold to an incredulous Mistress Woolsey, to take Stephen with them on a trip to Amaranthine. He comes back with two sets of mage robes, simple but his, and he shows Cullen with all pride and wears them every day and asks him how to put on armor over them.

That night Therrin all but crashes face-first into bed, exhausted. Cullen shrugs out of his clothes, watching in bemusement as she wriggles beneath a sheet. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Therrin answers, heavily muffled by a pillow. "Glad to be home."

Cullen blows out the lamp and climbs into bed, slowly and more carefully than Therrin had. "I'm glad you're home, too," he says at last, drawing closer, but there isn't an answer; she's already asleep.


	21. Digging In and Gaining Ground

It's not a surprise to Cullen the next morning when he wakes to find Therrin gone, but it is a surprise to find her downstairs with the other Wardens at breakfast, Stephen perched on her lap with his arms around her neck as though he means never to let go. Therrin gives Cullen a smile when he hesitates in the doorway. "Morning."

Cullen nods, recovering and sliding into the chair at her side. "Good morning." He glances down the table to where Nathaniel is poring over a stack of papers, scowling in concentration, and Anders and his cat are eating like they haven't seen food in a year. "Will you be staying at the keep long?"

"I don't know," Therrin admits, rubbing at one eye and looking as tired as she'd been the night before. "We had a bit of a situation in Amaranthine. It might be a while before we can get the facts straight."

"I'm reading as fast as I can, Commander," Nathaniel protests, voice mild.

"I know." She props her chin on top of Stephen's head and sighs. It makes Stephen squirm and wrinkle his nose, but Therrin doesn't seem to notice. "One of the Orlesian Wardens might have survived. Kristoff."

Cullen had been reaching for tea but he stops mid-motion, surprised. "Where?"

"He may have been scouting out in the east." Therrin tugs half-heartedly at a bit of decoration on Stephen's sleeve and he grins in response. "Which we didn't know until I got cornered by an innkeeper demanding that I clear out his things and pay back-rent for his room. But there was a map on his wall, and some notes of his in his room. It looks like he might have headed for the Blackmarsh to track a large band of darkspawn. Before we followed I wanted to come see if there was anything in the Orlesian Wardens' records about him."

Cullen mulls it over, dissatisfied. "He went out after a large band of darkspawn? Alone?"

Therrin's mouth quirks with a grim sort of humor. "That's what I thought." She rolls her neck from side to side, stretching and watching as Stephen clambers off her lap. "One surviving Warden, out in a remote area. The city is Esmerelle's territory; if she wanted to plant a trap to lure us out for an ambush, the idea of another Grey Warden would be the perfect bait." She shrugs. "At any rate, it's not something we can ignore. If there's really one of the Orlesian Wardens still alive, we need to find him. He could be injured, or trapped."

"Or dead," Anders cuts in.

"Or dead," Therrin agrees. "But we need to know."

Cullen frowns, leaning back in his chair and looking uneasily at the Wardens. There are only the four of them, now, two of them unarmored mages, Nathaniel and his longbow, Sigrun and her axe and dagger. Firsthand knowledge of their fighting skills or no, to Cullen's eyes they look harried and thin and not enough. "And if it is a trap?" he asks, disquieted.

Nathaniel snorts quietly but doesn't look up from his papers. Therrin looks rueful for a second. "Then we spring the trap."

"And hope she doesn't bring templars," Anders mutters darkly.

Therrin's gaze drops. Cullen thinks she looks daunted for a moment before the expression fades. "Yes."

_No_, Cullen thinks, but he keeps it to himself. Hours later, once Nathaniel has finished scouring the letters and finds no mention of Kristoff being sent east, Therrin announces that the Wardens will head out in the early afternoon. It eats at Cullen quietly, a gnawing, unsettled feeling that lodges under his ribs and won't leave him alone. If it is a trap, they need more fighters. If it isn't a trap, they still need more fighters.

"I'm going with you," he tells Therrin from their doorway, watching her buckle her pack closed. "To the Blackmarsh."

She looks up, surprised. "I thought you were busy training the new soldiers."

"They'll keep." He heads for his armor, hanging on a stand in a corner of the room. "If nothing else, Garevel can put them to use until I return. I don't like the idea of you heading out after a large band of darkspawn, trap or no. Not with only the four of you."

"I'm not exactly looking forward to it, either."

"You need more Wardens." Cullen tries to remember where the Blackmarsh is, and whether he needs to prepare for a couple of days' travel or for more.

"The thought has occurred to me, yes," Therrin returns, sounding wry. "For some reason there isn't a horde of people all lining up to drink darkspawn blood and hand over their lives." Cullen doesn't know what to say to that. For a moment the urge to volunteer presses at him, irrational as it is. He doesn't want to be a Grey Warden. She'd already said she didn't him want to be a Grey Warden.

"What about Wynne?" Therrin asks. "She could be here any day. She might come and go while we're gone."

Cullen takes a quiet breath, trying not to let on how much the idea of Wynne's presence makes uncertainty gnaw at his nerves. "This is more important," he says at last.

She watches him closely and for a second Cullen thinks she might know how painfully his conflicted feelings press at him. "So long as she doesn't blame me, I suppose," she says finally, a twist to her mouth. "I'm glad you're coming, though," Therrin says, oblivious to Cullen's private agitation. "I feel like I haven't seen half enough of you lately." She rises to help him with his armor and Cullen pushes back on his concerns, readying himself for the journey.

-oOo-

The prospect of yet another night encamped is significantly less than appealing, Therrin thinks dully, toeing rocks out of a patch of ground and holding her bedroll under one arm. At least in summer they can travel light. They won't freeze to death like they'd almost done during the Blight, and they can lie there beneath the stars and just sleep without having to fuss with tents and piles of blankets. Of course, during the Blight they'd had Bodhan and his cart. Now they take what they can carry, what they can drop in a hurry if they need to fight. Therrin drags the strap from around her bedroll and unfurls it, settling it onto the ground before rejoining the others. There's no need for a campfire, not tonight.

Nathaniel passes the pack of food over to Sigrun who passes it to Therrin, and she pulls out food and passes it to Cullen.

He seems relaxed, legs stretched out long in front of him, and Therrin sneaks glances at him as they eat. She really had been away too much, she thinks. He looks healthier than before. Healthier than he's ever looked, really, even at the Tower. Time in the sun hasn't left his skin much darker—touches of red at the backs of his ears and just above his collar make her think he might've burned instead of tanned—but his hair seems lighter, brushed with gold and longer than she's ever seen it. He's regained the muscle he lost during the nightmare of withdrawal and there's an ease to him that makes him look rested. Comfortable.

Therrin realizes she's staring and stops, tucking away her meal with determination and only looking up at the sound of Anders' whistling. He emerges from the darkness of the trees with his wrung-out robes still dripping and slung over one arm, stark naked and utterly unconcerned about it. Ser Pounce-a-lot weaves around his ankles as Anders hangs his robes over a bush to dry and bends over to rummage in his pack.

Nathaniel grimaces, looking away with an expression of pained distaste. "Can you point your arse some other direction?"

Anders straightens with clean robes in his hands, grinning crookedly. "Can I? Yes. Will I?"

"Yes," Therrin cuts in, amused.

Anders tugs the fresh robes down over his head, shrugging into them before turning to the task of fastening up the collar, working the sash closed and the light, flexible side-armor. "Almost a crime to keep a gorgeous specimen such as myself under wraps," he laments with a shake of his head as he knots the thick sash through the loop at his waist.

"You _don't_ keep under wraps," Nathaniel retorts.

Anders spreads his hands and shrugs. "Would you, if you were half as handsome as me?"

"I would try," Nathaniel answers, looking more amused than anything. Therrin smothers a grin and drinks. Weeks of travel had been grueling and sometimes it felt as though the only relief in all of it was the humor of Nathaniel and Anders' bickering. Small comforts. "Has he always been so immodest?" Nathaniel asks, reaching over for the waterskin. "I would have thought the templars at the Circle would have frowned on mages walking around naked."

"I had more changes of robes, at the Circle," Anders says, pulling one half-sleeve up his forearm and then the other. "Less need to stop and wash every half an hour. You know how hard it is to get mud out of enchanted cloth? Besides," he says, settling down cross-legged beside Nathaniel and swiping the waterskin from his hands. "Certain persons among us would've been just fine with the mages walking around naked, if you know what I mean. And by that I mean Cullen. Bit of a pervert, that one."

Therrin throws the last bite of her bread and narrowly misses Anders' face, and Ser Pounce-a-lot leaps on the bread and bats it away. "You forget the part where you kept changing robes ten times in the morning before studies because you couldn't decide what to wear. I know it's hard to believe," she confides to Nathaniel, "but he used to be even worse than he is now."

"Robes are important," Anders retorts. "The right robe is essential to harnessing the unimaginably powerful forces of magic." He waggles his eyebrows at Sigrun. "Unimaginably. Powerful."

"Look like skirts to me," Sigrun says, unimpressed.

"I think it's your fault Stephen became so fixated on the idea of wearing robes," Therrin accuses, the thought only now occurring to her. He'd adored them, of course, but she hadn't known why he'd been so adamant about it on their trip to Amaranthine.

Anders only snorts. "Right, like you ever wear anything but robes either. If it's anyone's fault, it's yours."

"I wore armor, once. Twice. And a dress," Therrin protests, when Anders tsks. "It's not like I'm ten feet tall with 'Commander of the Grey' tattooed on my forehead. If I didn't wear robes, no one would ever know who I was."

Cullen looks skeptical. "_You_ wore armor?"

"I didn't say it was a good idea," Therrin begins, and stops. "And it helped during the Blight. Robes, I mean. People saw the robes and staff and knew who I was. Usually. Not all the time. You remember Carroll?" she asks Anders, who makes a disgusted face. "He tried to stall me at the Calenhad docks, demanding I prove I was who I said I was." She eyes Ser Pounce-a-lot when he saunters over close, wary of being bitten.

"Carroll's an idiot," Anders grumbles. Cullen snorts and drinks, and says nothing in protest.

"He claimed he was the Queen of Antiva," Therrin muses, remembering. "I was petrified at the idea of going back to the Tower as it was. He just made it worse. I had to threaten to blast him to bits and feed him to the fish if he didn't get out of my way."

Cullen chokes, coughing water and looking at her in surprise. "And he didn't immediately take you into custody for threatening violence against a templar?"

_Not everyone was as strict as you were_, she thinks, and doesn't say, along with _the Circle was under attack and everyone had bigger problems_. But Cullen still looks more relaxed than not, and Therrin is reluctant to spoil his contentment by bringing up Uldred.

"Surely you could've tried to bring him around another way," Cullen goes on. "Diplomatically."

"Diplomatically," Therrin echoes, torn between irritation and amusement. "Says the man with the bloody enormous sword who hacks things to pieces first and lets the Maker sort them out later."

"As a last resort," Cullen argues patiently, sitting straighter. "I don't just…" he gestures, searching for words. "Just charge in, sword swinging and smiting everything I see. I always tried to be diplomatic."

He's talking about his brief tenure as Knight-Commander, Therrin knows he is, but the edge of his self-righteousness is just goading enough to make her blurt, "Like 'oh, Therrin, by the way, I think you might be in danger of overextending, could you be a little more careful?' instead of just smiting me without a word of warning?"

Cullen's face falls.

Therrin starts stringing together a long line of curses in her head, all self-directed. So much for relaxation, so much for diplomacy, so much for _anything_. Anders is snickering and she glares at him, but this is her mess and she's made it well and thoroughly. In the absence of a graceful recovery her only hope is to stop talking. She pushes to her feet, dusting off her hands. "I'm going to go wash."

She pushes through the brush and trees to the scant little stream and falls to her knees beside it, splashing water up her arms and on her face, muttering. Beautifully done, Therrin, just wonderful. This is why they put you in charge, so you could alienate everyone near and dear to you, one at a time: first Alistair, then Oghren, now Cullen.

The sound of footsteps filters through the trees. Cullen, following. "I did try to warn you," he says, looking grave as he ducks under a low-hanging bough and sits on the ground at her side. "At Kal'Hirol, fighting the golem."

It isn't what Therrin had been expecting. All she can think of to say is, "You did?"

"Yes." Cullen brushes dead leaves and twigs out of the way as though he could tidy the spongy ground. "During the battle I could feel you growing less controlled. I called out to you to stop." He looks away, his expression bleak, remembered unhappiness seeming to settle into the shadows around his eyes.

"I didn't hear you," Therrin admits.

"No," Cullen agrees, nudging a pebble with a fingertip. "It didn't seem as though you had." He glances up, troubled. "You know that I wouldn't have done it to harm you."

_You did once_, Therrin thinks, the memory gurgling up unbidden from the depths of her brain: staring horrified at the mangled bodies of the templars in Lothering, and then the shove of force as he'd stripped her magic away and sent her sprawling to the ground, the terrible ringing of his sword as he'd readied it and stalked forward to kill her.

The marsh isn't cold but Therrin shivers anyway. _That isn't fair,_ she reminds herself, trying for the thousandth time to scour the expression he'd worn then from her memory. _He was out of his mind with lyrium withdrawal, then; it isn't the same. _"Anders told me I was a hypocrite," Therrin offers, the thought feeling dull.

Cullen considers it a moment, and lets the comment pass. "Fighting in Kal'Hirol wasn't the best of circumstances," he says at last. "I didn't feel myself; my judgment… was probably not the best." Cullen shifts, leaning his back against the tree trunk and turning to better face her, looking haunted. "I wanted nothing more than to protect you," he confesses. "I feared you would die, or… or worse. When I called and you didn't stop—"

"I know," Therrin interrupts, unable to listen anymore. The memory dredges up an acid flood of shame that burns in her mind. She should have known better, should have kept a tighter rein on her powers, should have got out well before everything got out of hand.

He looks surprised when she pushes in close and rests against him, but only for a second. With her back to his chest and his arms around her loosely she's decidedly more comfortable, and it's easier to talk without looking at one another dead-on. "I think you did the right thing," Therrin admits, ignoring her pride as it stings. "It was a surprise, is all. I knew how dangerous it was but I couldn't bring myself out of it. When you took my magic… I don't think I had the best judgment with a head full of lyrium, myself."

Cullen is silent for a long time as night deepens around them, making the last shadows of the trees slant and smear into darkness. "I hadn't considered it would be frightening," he says at last, very quietly. The restrained distress in his voice makes her heart ache. "My memories of what happened in Lothering aren't… complete. I should have known—" From her peripheral vision, she can see him shake his head. "I assumed too much trust of you, I think," he says, sounding nearly sick at the admission. "I didn't know you'd consider it an attack."

"I don't," Therrin insists. At the time, out of her head with a towering indignation pushing her over the edge and lyrium fueling her fury and terror? Then, she had. Now is different, she thinks, very deliberately lining up her memories to examine them one by one: times he could have harmed her and didn't, times he'd followed her lead against all his better judgment. He'd left the Tower and stayed at her side when he could have gone anywhere in the world, he'd gone along with Anders' recruitment even though everything in his training called out for Anders' head, he'd run into the warehouse looking frantic at the idea that she had fallen into a templar trap and needed his aid.

He'd refused to implicate her, Therrin thinks, remembering the shade attack at the Tower, even to save himself.

"I do trust you," she says, voice low. There comes a point, she thinks, where the scale has to tip, where the balance pushes over and Maker help her she is tired of second-guessing. She has enemies enough without this distance that wedges itself between them, the unspoken expectation that the wrong action would end it all. Faith is a choice, Leliana had told her, once.

Therrin sits in the circle of Cullen's arms and listens to the sound of his breathing, and chooses. But behind her he's still quiet, waiting, and Therrin tries to sort out her thoughts and put them into words. "Thank you," she says. "I suppose you did save my life."

Cullen makes a low sound she feels against her spine. "I did say I didn't expect this to be easy," he says, cutting to the heart of the matter.

Therrin relaxes a little. "Or uncomplicated."

"Yes."

For some reason that more than anything else acts as a salve to her stinging pride—it happened, it could happen again, it isn't enough to break either of them—and Therrin lets out a sigh, folding her arms over his. When it comes down to it, she's still here, and he's still here. Maybe that is a louder declaration than any words either of them could say.


	22. First and Firstborn

As much of the country as they'd seen during the course of the Blight, Wynne thinks, it's nearly a miracle that she's never seen Vigil's Keep before. Some days she had felt as though she had a map of Ferelden inscribed on the back of her eyelids, had dirt from every inch of every single road ground into the hem of her robes. It's a bit of a wonder, then, to find the unfamiliar fortress so much vaster than she had imagined it.

She shouldn't be surprised, really. Alistair would only have granted the Grey Wardens the best.

The keep is a hive of industry, with carts coming and going along the roadside, with the chinking sounds of hammers on stone and raised voices shouting back and forth across the courtyard. Wynne sidesteps a particularly oblivious young man carrying a pair of crates who comes within inches of mowing her down, and shakes out the hem of her robes as her templar escorts scowl at the crate-carrier and Ser Berran opens his mouth to speak. "Gentlemen," Wynne admonishes, cutting off their ready protests. "I didn't walk all this way to be done in by a boy in a hurry. There's no harm done."

She doesn't bother telling them _I did survive a Blight, you know, these old bones stood against an Archdemon, so kindly stop treating me like a glass figurine_. Mostly because she had already tried to imply as much and it had not changed their behavior one whit, partly because the escort is necessary for appearances' sake, and so something to be endured. In any case, she has far more urgent matters to think about.

The thought that her son is inside this keep makes anticipation and hope quiver inside her like a plucked harp-string. _Don't get ahead of yourself_, comes the mental chide again, in a voice used on apprentices. _You_ _don't know how much the lyrium withdrawal might have changed him. And even if he remembers, even if he's perfectly himself, he may not have any interest in you as his mother._

But hope, once allowed to take root, is difficult to suppress. Wynne passes beneath the raised portcullis, casting a wary eye to the ancient mechanism holding it up before heading toward the gates and trying to mask her nerves. No matter how much time she spends out of the Circle, she never has felt quite at ease in new places.

She gives her name and title to the guard when he asks, and waits with clasped hands in the main hall of Vigil's Keep, letting her eyes adjust to the dim softness of the light. It might be her imagination, but she thinks she can see touches of her old companions here and there. The small stack of books with corners precisely aligned seems the work of Therrin's hands. Oghren would adore the enormous pot-bellied cask by the corner. It isn't half so grand as the palace in Denerim but what this hall lacks in regality it makes up for in atmosphere. Alistair's throne room probably gets as little use as he can stand to give it. This hall feels far more lived-in.

The novelty of having one of the Circle's own as an arlessa is something Wynne thinks she might never be properly used to.

"First Enchanter." A man in silver armor approaches, his expression alert. "I am Varel, seneschal of Vigil's Keep. Welcome."

"Thank you, seneschal Varel," Wynne returns, feeling more at ease. "It was rather a long journey."

Varel gives a short nod of understanding. "We've prepared a place for you and for your guards. The Commander is away from the keep, for the moment, but she gave notice to expect you."

Wynne ignores the slump of her own disappointment at his words. "I see."

"I believe she's expected to return before the week is out, First Enchanter," Varel offers.

At his gesture Wynne and her templar guards follow down the side passage—she'd have thought the halls would be wider, more accommodating for such a large place—but she keeps as much to herself, trying to determine how best to ask what's been so urgently pressing at her heart, settling for, "Is Ser Cullen in the keep at the moment?"

Varel's expression goes momentarily blank. A no, Wynne thinks, heart sinking. "He left with the Commander yesterday. They did not expect an extended leave from Vigil's Keep, I believe."

"I see," Wynne says again, crestfallen. She should have expected that one would follow where the other led, but every step on the way here she'd had the idea turning over in her mind of arriving at Vigil's Keep and embracing her son, to have the ties between them acknowledged for the first time in their lives. Wynne tries to rein in her errant sentimentality, honing in on a gap in Varel's explanation. "Therrin and Cullen are both away from the keep?"

"Yes, First Enchanter."

Wynne purses her mouth, disapproving. "And who is watching over Stephen?"

After Wynne leaves the templars and seneschal behind for the quiet of a private room, the answer himself comes hurtling in on four paws, leaping about and wagging his tail, knocking over a small table. Wynne Wynne Wynne! Dog says, bounding in place and immediately rolling onto his back, squirming in joy. You are here!

Wynne sighs and bends to scratch her nails across the short fur of Dog's belly. He pants in satisfaction. "Dog, you are _not_ a nanny."

Dog wriggles on the ground, legs splayed and tongue lolling.

"Where's Stephen?" Wynne asks, a little more sharply than she means to. It isn't Dog's fault, she thinks as he heaves to his feet and races off. Heaven knows Therrin might not have a motherly bone in her body but when she gets back to Vigil's Keep, Wynne thinks, she's going to have a very pointed word or two with her about this. Leaving Stephen here supervised by a _mabari_, not another mage or a templar in sight.

"Wynne!" Stephen races in as headlong as Dog had, flinging himself into her arms and oblivious to Wynne's soft _oof!_ of surprise as the breath's knocked from her chest. "I missed you!" At least he's in one piece, she thinks, a bit staggered by the force of his enthusiasm, unable to resist returning his smile when he grins up at her in unabashed adoration. "Did you miss me? Look, I have robes, and we went to Amaranthine for them and there was an abomination on the road and Anders killed it and I got to see!" His eyes seem alight with energy and he squirms, utterly unable to keep still.

Wynne folds her arms, reeling ever so slightly. Certainly children are no mystery, and it isn't as though she doesn't live among enough of them at the Circle Tower, but all of them seem so quiet and contained in comparison with Stephen. She tries to put together the scattered pieces of information—an abomination, good _gracious_— "_Anders_ is here?" Not that she's surprised he's alive, the boy had been a slippery little scoundrel since the day he was dragged howling through the Tower doors, but that he's here is a development she hadn't anticipated.

"Gone with everyone else," Stephen explains breathlessly, seeming to bounce from one foot to the other. "Fighting the darkspawn."

Dog peeks around the doorframe, ears cocked forward and looking hopeful, licking his nose and fretting. I watched him! I am a good watcher.

Wynne stares at the both of them for a moment, at a loss. I could use a glass of wine, she thinks, very deliberately setting aside the reserve of her role as First Enchanter. She should have known that once she arrived, she'd get drawn again into the optimistic madness of the Wardens, should have expected that nothing would ever be as simple as she'd first thought it would be.

_But I can wait_, she determines, watching Stephen and Dog together. _I waited these many years; I can wait another few days._

"You've grown so tall," she tells Stephen, smiling as she sinks onto the nearby couch and oh _goodness_ she hadn't realized how weary of walking she'd become. "I feel as though I haven't seen you in years. Come," she invites, patting the couch beside her and making room. Stephen crawls up close beside her and Dog flops at her feet, gazing up at her with a fervent happiness, and she looks fondly at them both. "Tell me all about what's happened since you left the Circle. I want to know everything."

-oOo-

The Blackmarsh is a broken place, and Cullen's skin crawls with every step they take.

It isn't just the idea of the area being abandoned, though Maker knows that doesn't lessen the sense of it being haunted. It isn't just the darkspawn, or the blight wolves and werewolves that launch themselves from the shadows with desperate, eerie cries.

The others seem unsettled enough and so Cullen holds his silence and doesn't let on that the Veil here is tattered, weak, as though it had been flayed and stretched too-thin across the land. The Wardens are preoccupied with the darkspawn—he knows they sense them, though he doesn't share the feeling when it happens—but the Veil is his own concern as a templar, and so he nurses his worry in private, keeping his sword at the ready.

He wonders if Therrin can feel it. He isn't sure how the thinness of the Veil would manifest itself to the senses of a mage, and doesn't want to ask. Heaven knows they have problems enough without Cullen pointing out more.

Nathaniel moves silently as a shadow down the dank, barren paths, scanning the depths of the fog. He crouches lightly at signs in the ground too faded to mean anything to Cullen and seems to follow an invisible trail, leading them ever-deeper into the mists and darkness.

"I don't like this," Anders says for what feels like the thousandth time, keeping very close to Therrin and Sigrun and looking distinctly agitated. "This is _creepy_."

Therrin glances up at the dark, bare tree limbs above them. "We've been through worse."

Anders only huddles in on himself, giving the Blackmarsh his direst look and walking so close behind Therrin that he treads on the backs of her boots.

The entire place feels surreal, an uneasy impermanence that makes the hairs at the back of Cullen's neck rise. He can't help but feel as though they're being watched, as though the Fade and all it holds are straining through from the other side of the Veil. Aside from the occasional call of a nightbird or the muck-wet sound of unseen creatures slipping into the stagnant pools of water around them the Blackmarsh feels like a tomb: noiseless, airless, lifeless.

Therrin's low noise of surprise yanks his attention back to their immediate location a moment before she goes charging down a side-path, Sigrun at her left hand and Anders on her heels, and Cullen wonders what fresh horror she might have found as he follows them.

He hears it a moment before he sees it, an otherworldly absence of sound that seems to suck all other noise into it, deadening the air, and then he ducks around a scrubby tree-limb and halts, stunned. It was one thing to feel the terrible fragility of the Veil but it's another to see it in the air before him, the tear in the world seeming to shift all of reality around it. Cullen tightens his grip on his sword, drawn closer in horrified fascination. Inside the tear, everything seems blurred, a smeared vision changing form: a view of the other side of the path, an image of somewhere else altogether, a terrible blend of the two realities as they're forced together.

"What _is_ that?" Sigrun whispers, leaning in closer to the flickering darkness.

Therrin puts a hand to Sigrun's arm, stopping her from getting too close. "A tear in the Veil. I think."

Cullen shifts uncomfortably, trying to sort out the chaos of his senses. "There are more." Therrin tears her eyes away from the rip in the Veil, glancing over her shoulder in question. "The Veil is…" Almost gone. Stretched to nothing and all but destroyed. "Very thin, here," he says at last.

Nathaniel appears at Cullen's side as though from nothing, perturbed. "Could this be the cause of the stories about the Blackmarsh being haunted?"

"Maybe." Therrin turns from the tear, leading the way back down the path. "Or the other way around. The Veil could have weakened if a lot of people died here."

Nathaniel glances out into the mists. "I heard that this was a normal village, once. Before everyone suddenly disappeared."

"Or _died_." Anders hasn't lost his unhappy look at all. "If they all died suddenly, that might weaken the Veil, yes?"

Therrin makes a noncommittal sound, crouching to peer into a rotted-looking crate and backing off in a hurry when a long black centipede crawls out near her hand. "Could be." She stands again, frowning down the path. "Let's be careful."

Careful doesn't seem to help. The blight wolves and werewolves seem to launch themselves from the darkness, vicious and frenzied, and the deeper into the marsh they go the stronger the sense of wrongness grows. Cullen feels it flaring through his senses, a feeling of old magic, driven like a stake through the land pinning the tattered Veil in place.

To think he had believed he would lose his templar talents, once. Without lyrium they feel different but undiminished. The uneasy sense of magic around him is as vivid as ever, the weight of it in his brain an undeniable force.

Nathaniel leads them to an abandoned campsite, the tent half-collapsed from the weight of water dragging at the canvas, but if their Orlesian Warden has been there in days, there's no sign of it. Therrin gives him a troubled look—it could still be a trap of Esmerelle's, Cullen thinks, though setting up a trap this deep in the marshes seems a dangerous prospect—but Nathaniel makes out a faded trail of signs leading east, and at Therrin's word, they follow.

There are more tears in the Veil, great voids in the air that seem to crackle and shift. Cullen and the Wardens give them a wide berth, pressing on carefully. The trail comes to an end at the sight of a body lying on the ground, edged in by a wall of rock and a crumbling building.

Nathaniel frowns as Therrin kneels beside the fallen body, fingers light on its armor. "Is that Kristoff?"

Therrin shakes her head. "I don't know. I don't know who else—"

Cullen doesn't know what happens then but a shock seems to go through the Wardens: Nathaniel dodges something Cullen can't see, his bow in his hands in an instant, Anders' staff glows white, Therrin pushes quickly to her feet and scans the mists, intent.

"Yes. That is your Grey Warden." The voice seems to churn from the darkness, guttural and ugly as the fog parts and Cullen sees the darkspawn, closing around them in a circle. Cullen's instincts screech towards battle at the sense of being surrounded but he checks himself, sharply. Therrin watches the darkspawn as they emerge and if she isn't fighting yet there's a reason.

"You killed him," she says.

"The Mother, she instructed. The Mother knew you would come." The talking darkspawn's eyes are a dull red and his mouth is a mangled cavern too inhuman for a real smile, but still Cullen gets the sense that the creature would be grinning if it could. "The Mother was right."

"What Mother?" Therrin asks, voice taut. "What are you talking about?"

"She who sends me," the darkspawn answers, which isn't much of an answer at all. "I am her First. I am bringing you a message: you will not help his plan. The Mother, she will not allow this."

A plan. Cullen's mind races but there aren't enough pieces to put together. Anders edges behind Cullen's shoulder, knuckles white as he grips his staff.

"Whose plan? What won't the Mother allow?"

The darkspawn around them shift and growl in place as though unused to restraint, rattled by inaction this close to Grey Wardens. But the First seems to only barely be listening at all, inflated with the importance of his status as messenger. He gives another grotesque not-quite-grin of satisfaction. "The Mother is sending me. She is giving you a _gift_."

He reaches into the depths of his armor, pulling out something—Cullen doesn't know what it is, just that it rends trails of malevolent energy across his senses and makes pain flare behind his eyes—and in a heartbeat the world tilts and goes grey, as too late Therrin and Anders cast, as Sigrun charges to slice at something that isn't there (and it is, but it isn't, and it _is_—).

There's a howling in his ears as everything disappears, a ripping feeling as the world is snatched away all at once, as they're torn—

Through the Veil, Cullen realizes, terror and a futile denial roaring through his brain, and then prays with his eyes tightly closed: _Maker, help us._


	23. The Realm of Dreams

When the world coalesces again it isn't the same, the colors skewed wrong, the ground not quite ground beneath his back, the sky greenish and terribly empty as though it isn't a sky at all. Cullen reels, his heart pounding in fear, staring up at the sunless light above. The sensation of being torn from the world reverberates between his ears, of being yanked from reality to something else.

The Fade.

His head spins and he rolls to his hands and knees on the ground, but it isn't the ground, it's featureless and grey and the soil beneath his hands doesn't feel like soil at all. At his side, Therrin winces and opens her eyes, focusing on him slowly. "Cullen?"

A tormented sound cuts off his reply as the talking darkspawn staggers to his feet, staring around in apparent panic. "No..."

Cullen is upright before he can think, sword in his hands. "What have you done?"

It seems a futile question—they're in the _Fade_, aren't they?—but anger and fright course together through Cullen's veins, fraying his last shreds of calm.

"It cannot be this!" The talking darkspawn seems almost oblivious to Cullen's presence, looking at the landscape with all dismay. "I am tricked!"

Therrin heaves to her feet, furious and apparently unconcerned with their location. She gives the darkspawn a hard shove in the chest that sends him sprawling to the ground. "I want answers," she snaps, leveling her staff at his inhuman wreck of a face. "And I want them now. Who is the Mother?"

"I am betrayed!" the darkspawn howls at the sky, ignoring the glowing crystal pointing at his eyes and the angry mage at the other end of the staff. "I am not to be sent to the Fade with _you!_"

"Why—" Therrin starts, but the a bright shockwave of light and power bursts forth from the darkspawn's hands, his own magic a force that drives them back to the ground. Cullen lands hard on his back, and this might be the Fade but the pain that jolts through him at the impact seems absolutely real.

"I am not to be answering your questions," the darkspawn growls, seeming to take notice of them for the first time since they'd been ripped from the Blackmarsh. "The Mother, she will pay for this. The First is not expendable!"

The prickle of another spell being readied crawls along the back of Cullen's brain and without thinking he retaliates, pushing out with his will and stripping all the mana he can in a single blow. For a sick moment he thinks his talents are useless here, that it hasn't done anything at all, but the darkspawn-mage staggers, staring at Cullen in disbelief as he sways in place. "The Children will take you," he rumbles, sounding faint as he turns, but before Cullen can focus his will into a more formidable weapon they're set upon by the small, ground-crawling darkspawn, a snapping horde of squirming flesh and monstrous teeth. They aren't difficult enemies to face but their numbers make the fight longer than Cullen feels it ought to be. They die one after another, impaled on his sword, hacked by Sigrun's axe, squealing and writhing as they fall.

The silence that follows is terrible. With an enemy to focus on he'd been able to force back the inevitable, but now there is no buffer in his brain to preserve him from the knowledge of their whereabouts. Fear and the Chant crash through his brain at the same time, neither doing anything to mitigate the other. _I'm not supposed to be here_, he thinks with an edge of panic, casting a glance up at the greenish light above.

"Where are we?" Sigrun breathes, fascinated. She pokes one finger at a goblet suspended in midair, watching as it wobbles for a moment and then falls up, disappearing into the sky.

"The Fade." Therrin scans the blurred horizon as though she could scent the air. Perhaps she can, Cullen thinks, because this is the Fade and nothing is natural here, all his training and all his instincts screaming to get out, _now_. "I don't know how he did it, though. Or this Mother, whoever she is."

Sigrun looks from Therrin to Nathaniel and back again, perturbed. "The Fade? Isn't that where humans go to dream? I think I read about it, back at the keep."

"Yes." Therrin clears her throat and Anders stops throwing pebbles up into the sky, looking absolutely not chastened at all. "We need to get out of here."

_Yes,_ Cullen thinks, relieved. _Thank you._

Nathaniel frowns. "Is there a particular hurry?"

"While we're here, our bodies are there," Therrin says, frowning. "Anything could happen to them and we wouldn't know until we died. And the Fade's not the safest of places, itself." She stills, a distant look as though she's listening to something Cullen can't hear. "Let's go."

Cullen follows closely down paths that seem to waver in and out of his vision. As long as he concentrates on the task at hand, as long as he narrows all the focus in his brain to just this one thing_,_ he thinks, the terror of being wrenched into the Fade can't touch him.

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. _The verse seems to slip through his brain like water through mesh, doing little to ease his horror.

Therrin stops abruptly. Cullen follows the direction of her gaze, dread pooling cold in his belly. Up the hill the greenish light seems stronger, hurting his eyes, and at the top of the path are demons.

Everything in his brain clamors for attention at once: rage, and terror, and a horrible twisting feeling that makes his bones seem to turn to water, makes panic writhe in him to get away. He can't seem to move, though, frozen inside the walls of his own mind, pinned in place by an old horror he'd thought himself free of. He can't shake off the assault of fright and shame and fury, can't think for the screaming in his head. He watches in stunned detachment as Therrin darts in, the trio of demons oblivious to her presence until a ring of blasting ice freezes them all in place, he watches Nathaniel's arrows shatter one demoness and then another, the ice flying apart in shards, he watches Sigrun fall upon the last with a triumphant cry, hacking at it until the pair of them fall out of sight.

It all seems very far away. The only thing that feels immediate are the cold rivulets of horror seeping through him, his thoughts like chunks of ice in a dark river: this is the Fade and Maker-forsaken, none of the images before his eyes is real and nothing can be trusted, there are demons here, thousands of them, _waiting_.

"Cullen." Therrin pulls at him, hauling him behind a rock and into what passes for privacy. His head is too thick and dizzy to protest and he squeezes his eyes closed against the thought that she isn't real either, that this is an illusion dragged from the depths of his own mind. "No, no. Come on."

When he opens his eyes Therrin is very close, holding onto his armor and tense with worry, but Cullen only sees her for a moment. Over her shoulder is a clear view of the emptiness beyond, and floating in it like a nightmare-vision of the vilest corruption, the Black City.

Cullen's world tilts. His knees buckle and he sinks to the ground, unable to breathe. The urge to pray batters at his mind but coherent thought is too elusive; all the darkness in his brain roars with force enough to shake him.

"Here." Therrin's hands are on his face, his neck, but he can't open his eyes. He shouldn't (he _shouldn't_) but he leans into the feel of her when she embraces him. All else is emptiness and horror but this feels like an anchor of stillness in the chaos and so he holds on and clenches his fingers in her robe and tries to breathe.

(She can't be a demon. If Cullen knows anything about demons it's that they wouldn't offer anything like comfort without stripping away something of him in return.)

"We'll make it out of here," Therrin says very quietly, lips brushing his ear. "We'll find the darkspawn and destroy whatever it is that brought us to the Fade. It will send us back. We just have to make it through."

_I can't_, he thinks, but a faded thread of pride keeps the words back. His tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. "How?"

When he opens his eyes Therrin is watching him. "We've got two Harrowed mages here. We know how to navigate the Fade."

_"How?"_ He swallows around the painful tightness of his throat, searching her face for answers. "How do you manage when none of this is real? There's… there's _demons_, and—"

"You trust yourself." She shifts but doesn't let go of his armor, her eyes not leaving his. "Like the Harrowing. You trust what you know, you trust what you can do, and you get through it."

But the stubborn horror refuses to be soothed. It seems a lifetime ago that he'd stood above her in the Harrowing Chamber with his sword ready. At the time, it had been the most horrifying moment of his life, but he had known nothing of horror, then. "Or you die," he reminds her.

"Or you die," she allows, and then more firmly, "You would have done what you had to then. We'll do what we have to now. Come on."

Cullen rises when she tugs him upwards and he tries to steady himself, taking in the sweep of the landscape without relaxing his grip on her hands. It hasn't changed—or if it has, he can't tell—there are the fallen demons, there the curve of the path that lies before them and yes, he thinks, pushing away a lingering panic, there hangs the Black City in all its corrupted grandeur.

Trust, he thinks, taking a deep breath and following when she heads back for the others. He doesn't know if he can trust what he knows. He holds the idea that Therrin knows what to do like a torch in his mind, for focus, for illumination. _To Amaranthine_, he had said once_, or wherever else._

He would never have imagined _wherever else_ would end up leading him here.

-oOo-

The Fade seems to blur and shift around them, wavering and reforming with every step they take. It isn't a foreign feeling but even familiar disorientation makes gooseflesh rise along her arms, makes her fingers twitch for the reassurance of a spell. Once they find the darkspawn and destroy whatever sent them here they can return to the waking world, she thinks, and then head back to Vigil's Keep and call the whole journey a loss.

Nathaniel draws up close at her side. "Commander. Is there a reason you're leading us away from the darkspawn?"

Therrin glances up at him, puzzled. "I'm not. It's somewhere over there." She points over the crest of the next hill.

Nathaniel frowns, taken aback. "I sense it behind us."

Therrin stops and the others shuffle to a halt. She bites back her initial response of _that's impossible, it's over there_ and tries, concentrating as hard as she can on the sensation of the darkspawn in the distance. What direction there is points like a jabbing arrow ahead of them. "I think you're mistaken," she says carefully, matching his frown.

Nathaniel shifts, uneasy. "I feel it behind us."

Therrin tries to think. Could he be sensing a different darkspawn? But no, she doesn't feel anything behind them, all sensory input points ahead. "Anders? Sigrun? Do you feel it?"

Anders seems to concentrate for a moment before frowning and shaking his head. "I don't feel anything."

"Me either." Sigrun's eyes are dull in the faded light. "Could the darkspawn be blocking our sense of it? We know it has to be here somewhere, right?"

"Unless it found a way to leave," Therrin admits.

"But if it is here," Sigrun goes on, crossing her arms and looking worried. "If it's here and we can't sense him… I don't like this."

Therrin's skin crawls. "No." But it could be, she thinks, that the Taint is a thing of blood instead of spirit, that their bodies are Tainted but not their souls, and so… "We may not be able to sense them at all here," she muses aloud. "We could be feeling what we expect to feel, where we expect to feel it." A dangerous thing. Expectations have their own peculiar power, in the Fade.

"That… isn't encouraging," Nathaniel says slowly, losing some of his previous defensiveness.

"We'll find it," Therrin says, wishing she sounded more convincing. "Sense or no sense, we'll find it. We'll get back."

They nod, one by one, except for Cullen. He stands with downcast eyes as though he could block out everything else from sheer force of will. "Come on," she says, jostling his arm and forcing back her burgeoning worries. "Come walk with me."

He falls into step beside her at the front of the pack, but doesn't say anything, and if there any words she could say to make this better, she doesn't know them.

The discovery of another trio of demons sends them flying into battle, though the demons don't even seem to register the presences of the Wardens until the first blow is struck. The pedestal the demons had surrounded glows with a pulsing light Therrin feels as much as sees, an eerie, sprawling feeling that seems to reach between worlds and hook them in place as they bleed together. Anders stalks around it, looking wary. "Do you feel that?"

"Yes." She reaches out to touch the pedestal and thinks better of it. "The other one was like this, too."

A frown creases Anders' forehead as he considers the light with distaste. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"It's doing something to the Veil." Therrin looks up in surprise as Cullen walks closer, all his focus brought to bear on the pedestal. "Something terrible." Therrin glances at Anders, who only shrugs in bafflement, but before she can ask Cullen to clarify, he scowls. His push of will shears through the Fade like a weapon alive, striking out at the unnatural pulsing light. The air shudders and seems to thicken, pressing in on her chest and solidifying inside her lungs and then the feeling is over, all traces of magic stripped from the pedestal, the light dimming and disappearing into nothingness.

Cullen nods in satisfaction. "We need to go back and disable the other one. And any more we discover."

But finding the way back to the other pedestal is more difficult than just walking back the way they'd come. The landscape seems to respond to their presence, warping and folding around them, shifting the path. Cullen finds the other pedestal and disables it but after that the directions seem to skew. They walk with readied weapons for what feels like an inordinately long time, past blackened, twisted trees, along the silent shore of the lake, until they crest the rise of a hill and find themselves where they'd been brought into the Fade in the first place, at the little house with the floating boat, unconcerned chickens clucking in their pen nearby.

"Now that's just wrong," Anders complains. "There wasn't a hill there before, was there?"

"No." Therrin scans the area but there doesn't seem to be anything of note around, no darkspawn, no demons, and no sign of the right way to go.

"I don't like this," Nathaniel says, casting dark glances down the path. "Are we here because we dreamed we'd come back to this place? Or is something directing us away from the darkspawn?"

"I'm not sure," Therrin admits. "It could be either. It could be something else entirely."

Sigrun leans on the rail of the chicken-pen, watching in interest. "These aren't real, are they?"

"Real for the Fade," Anders says, peering at them. "Not real-real. The Fade is the realm of dreams. And nightmares."

She frowns. "So which one of us is dreaming about chickens?"

Anders grins. "Oh, that'd be me. Nothing beats a good Fade-chicken. Get a Fade-pan, fry them up in some Fade-grease. Good eating on one of those, you know."

Sigrun doesn't look convinced. "Commander?"

Therrin thinks for a moment that Sigrun wears the same expression Dog does when he expects her to know all the answers, but answers are the one thing she lacks. "Not my dream," she admits. "My nightmares don't look like this." Which sounds far more dire than she'd intended, she realizes the moment the words are out. Cullen looks quietly stricken. "Fewer chickens, in mine," she explains. "More cats."

Anders grins and she thinks Cullen's distressed expression eases a bit, but the only thing that will really help is getting out of here, not whistling in the dark. "We need to keep going."

When they set off again Therrin keeps an eye on what looks like a chantry-spire in the distance, wondering at the likelihood of the Fade is being molded around them, and the possibility of molding it herself in turn. As fiercely as she can she wills the path to take them closer to the darkspawn, and one step at a time, one turn at a time, the hills give way to an area that seems less flat than unnaturally compressed. They find another pedestal, different than the others with standing-stones around it. When it doesn't respond to Cullen, Therrin and Anders pick their way around the stones and nudge them with magic until the light falls away with an ear-splitting shriek and a wave of demons pours forth from the ground.

Cullen plunges into the fray, so forceful and furious that Therrin backs away in alarm. The demons heave themselves upward from the ring of stones, sinewy arms reaching, but they're hopelessly outmatched. Within moments the fight is over and the ground is clear and Cullen shakes demon-blood from the edge of his sword, grim and severe. "We shouldn't linger here." He indicates the stones with a nod of his head. "Even without the pedestal, this place is a focus. More demons will come, if you draw them." Therrin glances at him, surprised. "If we draw them," Cullen corrects too late, looking uncomfortable.

Therrin tucks a wisp of hair back behind her ear, considering both versions of his statement. "Let's—"

A woman's scream tears through the air, loud and panicked and close. Nathaniel tenses, his guard going up in an instant. "Someone else is here."

Therrin nods, already in motion. "Let's go."

_And be careful_, she thinks, the warning pounding in her head with every beat of her pulse. _Be careful, be careful, be careful._


	24. Blade and Compass

The source of the scream is a spirit, a woman sitting on the edge of the lake, curled in on herself protectively. Therrin crouches to her eye level, wary and ready to dodge in case the woman turns out to be a demon in disguise and this is a trap to lure her in close enough to kill. "Are you all right?"

"No, my lady, I did not forget, believe me," the woman pleads, looking like a dog waiting for a hard kick and backing away from something Therrin can't see. "I merely—no. No, I would never contradict your ladyship." Her expression contorts into panic. "No! Please!" She screams again, an anguished sound that makes Therrin jump in surprise.

"Something is wrong, here," Nathaniel mutters. "Is that a demon?"

"No, my lady, I did not forget, believe me," the woman begins again, every word exactly the same as before. "I merely—no."

"I don't think so," Therrin answers, rising and backing away warily, wincing when the woman screams again. "A trapped spirit, maybe, but not a demon." In the Fade at the Circle Tower there had been figures like this, oblivious to all but their own suffering. She dares a glance at Cullen, but his expression is unreadable. "Let's keep on."

The path winds around the side of the lake, which actually _feels_ like a lake, Therrin notices, wondering. When they'd first arrived at the lakeshore it had been waveless and flat, as though someone had tried to create a lake with only the vaguest notion of what a lake really was, but here it feels real. The breeze skims over the water and ruffles her hair, cool and damp. The walls of the village are intact here but more than that, they feel solid, curving along the side of the path. Above the wall she can see the tops of buildings, roofs and windows and a spire rising into the sky.

"Is that what the Blackmarsh looked like before it was abandoned, do you think?" Sigrun asks, looking up at the wall. "It doesn't look like the rest of the Fade."

"It's possible," Therrin admits. Though so much is possible in the Fade she isn't sure what this might mean, if anything. If she didn't know better she would be tempted to think this was real. The stone of the wall is rough and moist beneath her palm and smells of damp stone; the wooden planks of the docks creak as the waves roll in and out. Aside from the light, this feels like a _place_. It's an odd feeling.

"Commander." At Nathaniel's word she stops, looking to where he points ahead on the path to a woman bending beside a gravestone. Therrin wonders for a moment if this is another trapped spirit, but the woman spots them and straightens, dusting off her hands as she begins to walk in their direction.

"You're not spirits," the woman breathes in gratitude, raking them over with her eyes. "How did you get here?"

"We were brought here," Therrin says carefully. "How did _you_ get here?"

"This is where my grandfather's ashes are buried." She considers Anders in frank appreciation before she turns her gaze on Therrin. "I come to visit him often."

The hairs at the back of Therrin's neck stand up in response. _So_, she thinks, and tightens her mental guard. "You know this is the Fade, don't you?" From her peripheral vision she can see Cullen's confused glance.

The woman seems to founder. "Of course I do, but—" She casts about helplessly, then glances up again with an expression of fright, running away. "They're coming again! Quick, come hide in the crypt!"

Skeletal figures erupt from the ground, animated by the force of their hatred and shambling toward the Wardens, rusty weapons swinging. The surprise of the attack sends them retreating for a precious few seconds' time before they can push back, rallying as shades slide from the ground and join the fight. An arrow whistles past Therrin's ear and spears the forehead of one creature, Sigrun's axe and dagger make short work of the old, brittle bones and Cullen shatters everything Therrin can freeze.

The remnant of a warding glyph wraps seems to hover around her as the last creature falls: Anders, being cautious. She nods in gratitude and he returns the gesture, serious, giving the door of the crypt a dubious look.

"We should go help her," Cullen says, sheathing his sword. "There might be more creatures in there. She could be in trouble."

Anders snorts. "Oh, I think she's just fine." Before Cullen can argue, Anders meanders closer, crossing his arms. "I'm thinking demon. You?"

Cullen does a quick double-take. "What?"

Anders ignores him, mulling it over. "Not desire, do you think?"

Therrin closes her mouth quickly at Cullen's incredulous look. "No," she says, after a moment. "Not sophisticated enough for desire. If I had to guess."

"And it didn't offer anything," Anders adds, thinking. "Hunger, probably. I got a distinct sense of wanting." She nods agreement.

Cullen frowns, deeply troubled. "You believe that girl is a demon?"

"Possibly a demon," Therrin corrects, at the same time Anders says, "Absolutely."

Cullen looks a bit sick. "Oh."

"We can manage a hunger demon," Therrin says, trying to sound reassuring. "We've killed desire demons already, and they're stronger."

"But they weren't expecting us," Anders points out, ignoring her look of annoyance. "This one is. But, yes. Hunger? Not a problem. Now, if it was a _pride_ demon…" He lets the sentence hang.

"What?" Cullen asks, worried. "What if it was a pride demon?"

"Then we run. And scream. And probably die anyway." Anders sighs. Therrin glares at him, irritated, but he ignores her. "Well. Let's go kill it, shall we? You go first."

-oOo-

The depths of the crypt are filled with a legion of monsters. Cullen's muscles ache from the constant fighting, his sword heavy in his hands. At least it isn't as dark as he expected. The walls are lined with clusters of lit candles, casting a flickering glow across the inside of the crypt.

Not real, he thinks, as they make their way down another cramped hallway. Who would take the time to keep candles lit in a crypt, anyway? Unless it's to ease the way. If it is a demon, it might keep the area lit to draw in prey, to make the pathway more alluring. The idea makes Cullen's skin crawl.

At the bottom of a hallway is a dank, low-ceilinged room, the girl's back barely visible in the gloom. "And so you came." Beside him, Therrin stiffens. "Fell into my little trap," the girl—demon?—continues, voice nearly a purr as she turns.

"Demon," Anders says flatly from behind Cullen's shoulder.

Her mouth twists in a knife-thin smile. "Mage." She stalks in a semicircle, very pleased. "My entire existence I've waited, longing for a mortal mage to possess, and now…" She laughs, a throaty sound. "Now _two_ mages walk right into my lair." Her eyes narrow and Cullen's heart pounds at the word _possess_. How easy would it be to possess a mage in the Fade? "The girl was a pleasant morsel," the demon goes on, voice low and pleased, "and _oh_ how she hungered. Do you want to know what she gave me, to slake her thirsts?"

Therrin's expression is hard. "I'd really rather you just died."

The demon only looks delighted. "You _are_ a lively one. A fight will only make the feast all the sweeter."

With a green swirl of light the creature transforms, the illusion of humanity falling away to reveal a monstrosity of too-long limbs and dead, milky eyes. The room erupts into a storm of magic: the demon's as it summons more skeletons from the shadows of the crypt, Anders' spell outlining them all in white, the lash of frozen air from Therrin's blizzard, too much for the small space to handle. Cullen dives in when he can, armor creaking from the cold, his sword heavy in his grip as blood freezes along the blade. When the demon falls, it disappears entirely, not even a puff of dust on the ground to mark its passing. Cullen stands ready with every nerve on edge, waiting for it to reappear, for another trap to spring and another battle to fight, but doesn't come. Instead a shimmering image appears: the girl again, still and ghostly. "Thank you, strangers. I have been trapped here by that creature for so long…"

Cullen looks to Therrin warily, but she and Anders stand together, listening.

"You have released me. I can go, at last. Thank you." Anders nods and the image fades from sight; when the seconds slide past and the crypt is silent, they begin looking for the way out.

Cullen catches up to Therrin at the head of the group, unsettled. "Was that another trapped spirit, then?"

Therrin tests a door, but it only leads further into darkness. "A girl. Possessed by the demon, I think. Stuck here for… Maker only knows how long." Her voice is pitying.

Cullen doesn't know if he can share her sympathy, not quite. Still, he understands the agony of being trapped all too well.

"She's free now, though," Anders adds, unusually serious. And then, more lightly, "I _did_ strike that last blow, so technically I'm the one who did all the freeing. Do I get a raise?" Therrin gives him an amused glance. "A medal?" When no one answers, he mulls it over. "'Anders the Liberator' has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

As they head for the surface Anders invents a few new titles for himself, each one more inflated than the last, but Cullen only barely hears him. He glances over his shoulder instead, toward the room where the girl had appeared, trying to make sense of the warring impulses in his brain: judgment and mercy, and the press of something more that he doesn't quite know how to name.

As the door of the crypt swings open Cullen blinks, squinting his eyes against the sudden brightness. For a moment the light seems so glaring and real that he wonders if they haven't stumbled out of the Fade and back to the mortal world. But no, the walls of the village rise before him, and beyond them, signs of life that the Blackmarsh had lacked completely. The houses he can see seem freshly built, the roofs sturdy and new, and smoke rises from a chimney, disappearing in greenish puffs into the colorless sky.

Something is wrong here, more than just the place's existence in the Fade. Despair weighs heavy on the village, like a physical presence flattening them all from above. The whole Blackmarsh feels like a cataclysm waiting to happen. Each turn of the street reveals more spirits, townspeople locked inside their own misery, muttering and crying and bowing their heads. They look like ordinary people, Cullen thinks, unsettled. It's as though some terrible hand had taken normality and twisted it, just a touch, enough to make everything look almost right. The streets are streets, the houses are houses, the people are people, though they aren't quite behaving as though everything is well.

They're guarding the children. The realization crawls along Cullen's nerves as he looks from one group to another of nervous adults with rings of fatigue under their eyes standing guard over clusters of silent children. None of them look older than Stephen, but Stephen would never have been so still. These children should be running, shouting, playing. Instead they cower in the dust, glancing up at Cullen with wide, terrified eyes and huddling away. He catches a glimpse of a very small boy scarcely old enough to walk who peeks out from behind a makeshift fortress of crates and immediately disappears from view. Cullen cranes his neck for a better look and the adults standing guard glower, but when he opens his mouth to speak they drop their gazes, pretending he isn't there.

Maybe they aren't pretending. Maybe none of them are really here. Maybe they can't see him unless they want to, or unless he ventures too close to the children.

Maybe none of this is real.

He edges in closer to Therrin. Is this what the Harrowing is like? He can't fathom it, if so, can't understand how anyone could navigate this place, especially not young and alone. How can you trust your senses when nothing they tell you is real? How do you come to know a place with no borders, where the paths wind around themselves like vipers? He spares a look for Therrin and Anders, but they don't seem half as rattled as Cullen feels. Instead they wear identical expressions of neutrality, taking everything in with wary eyes.

_You can't trust them, either_, the idea presses from some corrosive corner of his brain.

Cullen forces the thought away with an effort, setting out the rigid path in his mind: there is no way out but forward, and Therrin will know the way. In the absence of any other guidance, not from his own senses, not from the Maker (he glances at the Black City again and it seems to hover in the backs of his eyes when he squeezes them closed), the idea has its own dogged persistence. If the Fade is a land with no map then Therrin is a compass with no use for needles; he may be lost but she will find a way to get back.

(_Maker_, let there be a way to get back.)

Therrin's expression shifts, a glint of confusion that banishes the careful neutrality. "Valor?"

Cullen looks around, concerned, as Anders gives her a sharp look. "Who?"

When Therrin forges onward and Cullen and the Wardens follow. Their steps slow as they approach a small rabble of spirits, shouting by a large, closed gate, the confused look on Therrin's face subsiding. A white, transparent figure paces a determined line in front of the gate.

"Friend of yours?" Anders asks, muttering under his breath, looking uncomfortable with the proximity of the gathered spirits.

Therrin shakes her head, not taking her eyes from the white figure. "No. I thought—"

"And what's this?" the figure demands, the crowd parting to let him through as he heads in a straight line for the Wardens. Cullen grips his sword tightly but doesn't give ground. "More minions of the Baroness? Or more helpless souls she has tormented?"

Minions, Cullen thinks wildly, glancing at the Wardens, all armed, all formidable. _Minions?_

"This Baroness wouldn't happen to be the Mother, would she?" Therrin returns, voice flat and cautious.

A ripple of confusion runs through the assembled spirits, an uneasy conferring in lowered voices. "She never had any children I ever heard of," a woman confesses, shifting uneasily.

"If you do not know the Baroness then you must be a stranger indeed," the figure pronounces. "I am Justice. Too long have I watched the wrongs visited on these people at the hands of the Baroness. We must act, stranger. Will you aid us?"

From behind him, Sigrun stirs, pressing closer to Therrin. "We ought to do something," she whispers, so quietly the sound barely carries as far as Cullen's ears. "There's something wrong being done to these people." The crowd wouldn't hear anything, he thinks, narrowing his eyes at the white figure. Nothing about it seems like the other spirits here and the difference nags at him, acute and unsettling.

A nod is the only indication that Therrin hears Sigrun's opinion on the matter, and she doesn't look away from Justice. "What are you attempting to do?"

It's hard to determine Justice's expression through the transparent lines of his face, but Cullen gets an impression of surprise. "A direct attack," he answers, as though this should be obvious. "You and your companions look capable enough. With your aid we can storm the gates, take the battle to the Baroness, and rid this place of her evil."

It sounds straightforward enough to Cullen, and that alone gives him pause. Therrin's expression gives nothing away. "Why?"

"We lived in the real world, once, and the Baroness ruled over us," one of the women interjects, looking desperate. "She took our children and used their blood to work dark and evil magic."

Cullen's consternation sharpens. "She was a blood mage?"

"Yes." The woman nods eagerly, looking hopeful. "And when we rallied together and burned down her mansion, she cast one final spell that brought our spirits here. We have been trapped ever since, still under her rule."

"I see," is all Therrin says, one hand over her mouth.

"Your arrival is a sign," Justice declares. "Her reign of evil is over. Aid us in our righteous task, stranger."

Therrin and Anders exchange a look, but what they might be thinking, Cullen doesn't know.

"Unless you're an _ally_ of the sorceress," Justice goes on, voice darkening with disapproval. "Or a new sorceress come to inflict your will on these poor souls."

"I'm a Grey Warden," Therrin says evenly, voice mild. "If you'll excuse us."

A little distance from the crowd buys them space enough to think. Or at least it feels that way to Cullen, as though a weight is lifted from his brain at the privacy afforded by a wall.

"We have to help them," Sigrun insists, eyes large. "It isn't right to leave them trapped in this place."

Nathaniel crosses his arms. "I agree."

Anders only sounds weary. "You can't keep thinking that you can trust what you see. For all we know the Baroness is a perfectly charming woman who was at the wrong end of a nasty rumor. There might not be a Baroness at all."

"There's something," Therrin murmurs, sounding distracted. She glances at Anders. "Like an echo. It could be the Baroness."

"It could be something else." Anders doesn't look hopeful.

"Or none of this could be real," Cullen says roughly, daring one of the mages to correct him. It's all too convenient, isn't it? If he could have tailor-made a trap for himself, he'd have crafted it just like this: innocent souls trapped by a blood mage, with children in peril for bait and a spirit of righteous justice to guide him on. The thought makes him feel sick and cold.

"It's real enough," Anders says, and something in Cullen eases until Anders finishes his thought with, "but _real_ and _true_ are different concepts entirely."

"I don't understand," Sigrun interrupts, appearing distressed. "This place—this is the collective nightmare of all these people, right?" At Anders' nod, she presses, "Then why wouldn't we help them?"

"We don't have enough information yet." Therrin grimaces. "Don't agree to anything," she cautions, sounding tired. "Come on." The crowd's enthusiasm seems to have dampened, Cullen thinks as they approach. "Justice."

The white figure steps forward, standing at attention. "Grey Warden."

"I need to find a way out of the Fade," Therrin says briskly, surprising Cullen. "And I'm looking for a darkspawn. Have you seen him?"

"A… darkspawn? No, I have not seen such a creature. Is it like you? From the world of mortals?" Therrin nods, and Justice seems to consider it. "No, I do not know what a darkspawn is. But if you aid us against the Baroness, I will aid you in your search."

Therrin watches him closely. "Why did you watch them so long? These people," she clarifies at Justice's apparent confusion. "You said you watched them for some time. Wasn't it unjust of you to observe injustice without taking action against it?"

The spirit hesitates. Therrin's eyes narrow, just a little, and a shiver chases itself down Cullen's spine. The wrong answer, he thinks, and they'll be embattled, Baroness or no.

"My own strength was insufficient to the task of defeating the Baroness," Justice admits. "I had hoped to find other spirits to rally to the cause, but the Baroness' evil is widely known. Few would want to confront such power directly. Even so, preparing these mortals has taken much of my energy."

Therrin glances around at the assembled spirits. "You've armed them," she says, and to Cullen it sounds like it might be a guess.

"And armored them," Justice nods. "They could not be sent unprepared into battle. Such would be—"

"Unjust," Therrin interrupts.

"Yes."

And Cullen hasn't seen anything in the exchange to set him at ease, but Therrin seems to relax the littlest bit. She glances at Anders and he nods. "Very well," says Therrin. "We'll help you."

"And I shall aid you in your search for this darkspawn," Justice affirms, sounding pleased. "And for a way back to the mortal world. It is agreed." At Therrin's nod, he turns to the assembled spirits, thrusting an arm at the sky. "To battle!"

With greater strength than Cullen would have thought a mostly-transparent figure would possess Justice kicks in the gate, striding into the courtyard beyond with all determination. The other spirits follow and then the Wardens, and Cullen watches as the mansion doors swing open, revealing only the silhouetted figure of a woman.

When he gets closer he can see the woman is flanked by monsters, demonic-looking things with gaping maws for bellies that hiss and whip their heads from side to side, scenting the air.

"You know," Anders mutters beside him, sounding nervous. "Some noblewomen just keep small, fluffy dogs."

But another figure emerges from the darkness, broad and scarred and glowering at them with a look of menace. The First.

"What's this?" the Baroness demands, scanning the crowded courtyard with distaste. "The pathetic fools have managed to recruit more sympathizers?"

"We aren't afraid of you any longer!" a woman cries from behind Cullen. But the Wardens' attention is focused on the darkspawn standing at the Baroness' side. Cullen feels the shifts of energy and agitation like a physical push, pressing at him from all sides.

"You must kill them!" the First insists, distressed and looking to the Baroness.

"You stole our children!" another voice shouts from the rabble. "You took their blood—"

"As was my due," the Baroness cuts in, voice utterly cold. "You live on _my land_. Your lives are mine. Your blood is mine."

Cullen's stomach twists. Surely this is wrong, surely this, at least, is what it seems?

The darkspawn's agitation only grows. "They are Grey Wardens!" it says, nearly pleading with the Baroness. "They are being more dangerous than you know!"

The Baroness only looks bored. "Oh, very well, creature. Kill them, and I will send you back across the Veil as you wished."

For a split second the words jar in Cullen's mind, a hysterical flash of _we've sided with the wrong person, now we'll never get back. _A sound like laughter slips into his ears, hooking itself into his mind and wrenchingly familiar. _And what would you _give_ to get back, templar? Yourself? Now there's an idea._

He forces the sickening idea away, flushing with shame and horror, and then he's almost grateful when the battle begins because there isn't time to think. The chaos doesn't lend itself to contemplation. Monsters slide from the mansion's doorway, coiling in on themselves like snakes and reaching out with long, stringy arms, Justice and the Baroness are locked in battle in the doorway, intent only one another, and the air comes alive with magic. He feels the storm of it, more clearly than he ever had before: in small spells that patter at his skin like snowflakes from afar, in the First's bloody tempest that rakes across his nerves like claws, in Therrin's whirlwind of fire that towers into the sky like a shout of flame.

The First falls like any other emissary, knocked back by Cullen's will and sent sprawling to the ground. The darkspawn scrambles for its sword, fingers reaching, and Cullen kicks the blade away along the ground into the crush of fighters. When the First reaches for Cullen to throw him off-balance, Cullen brings his sword down in a sharp, vertical thrust, impaling the darkspawn through his stomach and watching in grim satisfaction as black ichor bubbles out around his blade. _You brought us here_, Cullen thinks viciously, _with your magic, and now you'll pay._

But the darkspawn's mortal wound makes the air seem to shiver. "No!" The First calls out weakly to the Baroness, beseeching. "You must be sending me back now! Or it is too late!"

The Baroness whips around in a rage, blocking another blow from Justice's sword. "I will send you back," she seethes, wild-looking and dangerous. "I will send you _all_ back! And your blood will provide the power!"

"No!"

But the First's refusal comes too late. A green light builds at the Baroness' hands and streams out to wrap around the First's fallen body, whips of energy that flay it to pieces as Cullen watches, repelled. Armor gives way first, then skin, then muscle dissolving into a wet paste of blood and power. The light tightens around it with its final scream, cutting short in a terrible liquid gurgle, and then the howling energy explodes outward with a physical push, the world shaking itself apart before Cullen's eyes. He tumbles into nothing as the light grows too bright to bear, leaving him blind as everything comes unraveled.

When it stops, the first thing he notices next is quiet, the terrible roar of magic hushed to silence. The second is the dampness of the ground beneath him. The third—

"Oh," Therrin groans beside him, sounding as terrible as he feels, holding her head and looking very pale.

Anders doesn't even bother to try and sit up, staring up into the falling rain. "Let's _never_ do that again."

"Agreed." Sigrun wobbles upright, looking sick. "Oh, ancestors take me."

"I'm going to—" Therrin begins, and stops, wincing at the volume of her own voice. "Potions," she says, more quietly. "We'll feel better in a few minutes. Potions will help." With an effort, she gets to her feet, looking for her pack.

"You're an expert at coming back from the Fade?" Nathaniel manages, the forced lightness not feeling funny at all.

But they survived, Cullen thinks, a rush of energy suffusing him with new vigor despite the shaky weariness of his body. They did. They made it out of the Fade and no one was killed, no one was possessed.

Therrin holds onto a wall for balance as she rounds a corner and Cullen drags himself to his feet to follow, surprised at how much effort it takes.

When he turns the corner he nearly topples over her. She glances up at him from her seat on the marshy bank of the pond, holding her torn-open pack in both hands. "Something ate all our food," she announces tiredly. "I suppose we're lucky it didn't eat _us_."

Cullen leans on the wall, trying to balance and not distracted by the thought of a hungry journey home. "You did it." But standing is too much effort, and he sinks to the ground beside her.

Therrin musters a little smile. "It wasn't exactly a solo effort, you know. We did it."

But Cullen hadn't put his faith in the group, he'd put his faith in her, and here they are home in the real world, whole and alive and safe. Cullen's throat constricts, the press of urgency and rightness welling up stronger than he knows how to bear. "I want you to marry me."

Therrin's eyes widen.

"I want to marry you, I mean," Cullen goes on, trying not to stutter, trying to sort out the avalanche of words that's threatening to pour from his lips in an insensible babble. It wasn't supposed to be like this, in a swamp, covered in mud, but it doesn't change his feelings and now that he's said it… "I want to… to be your husband, I want to… to spend the rest of our lives together—"

Except it won't be the rest of _their_ lives, he thinks in a wild, terrible moment, not because of the Taint. Therrin's eyes are downcast and he wonders if she's thinking it too. "Whatever we can. If it's for the next hour or the next thirty years," Cullen corrects, reaching out and taking her cold hand in his own. "Whatever time we have, I want to spend it with you."

Therrin stares at him, frozen. After what feels like a long time she licks her bottom lip, mouth opening twice before any words come out. "What about Stephen?"

"Stephen too." Cullen nods once, determined. "Of course."

Therrin only seems stunned, groping for words. "I thought you'd… it isn't just me, Cullen, it's… the Wardens, and the whole arling—"

"I know," Cullen answers immediately. "I do. I've seen what you've done, as arlessa. I think I have an idea of what I might have to do. But I'll do it, I don't—" He stops as his momentum falters, at the idea that he still hasn't actually asked and that this isn't anything like he'd hoped it would be but he's in it up to his neck now. "I love you. I want to marry you, and I know what it will mean. For a lot of people."

Something sneeringly unpleasant in his brain informs him that this is the least romantic proposal in the history of the tradition and he quashes the thought severely, feeling as though he's dangling from a perilously thin thread. "Therrin, if the answer's no, then please just tell me no, but—"

"Yes," Therrin interrupts, breathless and disbelieving. "The answer's yes." And then fatigue and mud don't seem to matter because she reaches for him and kisses him fiercely and he can't do anything but respond, elation pouring through him and banishing the darkness as he tightens his arms around her. Yes, he thinks, squeezing his eyes closed and holding on, yes is perfect, yes is—

"Commander!" Nathaniel's word of alarm rips through the air, shattering the moment.

Therrin makes a low growl of frustration, fingers white-knuckled with holding onto his armor. She searches his face for a wild moment, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes," she whispers again, pressing another small kiss to his mouth, and then she clambers to her feet and races away in the direction of Nathaniel's voice.


	25. The Burden of the Just

The world comes back to Justice slowly, the terrible green light of the Baroness' spell fading into darkness which fades into this: this strange murkiness, this filmy depthless feeling as though the world has thickened around him, as though the usual directions of here and not-here and through-here have gone meaningless. All that seems to be clear is that he remains knocked down from the force of the spell. He attempts to rise and cannot, and the realization brings him to an abrupt halt. He has never been unable to move before. Now no amount of will is sufficient to bring him upright. He focuses his energy into a keen tool and pushes but it makes no difference. Justice feels a moment's alarm: if he cannot rise he is vulnerable, if he cannot rise, the poor souls of the Blackmarsh may be similarly helpless.

Justice steels himself for the effort, and tries again.

He cannot move.     

Worse, other sensations trickle into his awareness, uncomfortable foreign feelings invading his consciousness. With no similar experiences for comparison the assault of newness is painful. He is damp and this is repulsive, a moist clammy feeling clinging to him relentlessly, and he is stiff, and he is…

Justice does not know the word for this terrible feeling, an empty numbness that robs him of sensation, and yet is a sensation unto itself.

_Cold_, the thought comes, and then with it an avalanche of images. Cold is snow and ice and frigid rivers in Orlais, and Justice knows none of these things but there are memories tearing their way through him, slicing into his consciousness and fusing there like a parasite. Aura's hands had been cold in winter, small fingertips skimming under his shirt to his ribs. Aura is light and sweetness and warmth (and cold, Justice thinks helplessly, trying to piece it all together even as the sensation seems intent upon shredding him to pieces). The blur of memories is too fast to follow and too strong to oppose and Justice tries to twist away from the pain of it but there is no escape. It consumes him and surrounds him, a thousand details of otherness he does not know and does not want: the taste of jam, the spray of the sea, the hard glare of the sun.

_The sun?_ Justice does not complete the mental question before there are answers rushing at his brain like wraiths: the sun is yellow and white and red at sunset, and hot in summer and faraway in winter and it bleaches the sky and gilds the wheat in the fields and streaks Aura's hair with honey and and and.

It is far too much to bear. Justice holds on tightly to the core of his being and endures what he cannot resist.

It seems a very long time before the sensation abates, the well of unfathomable information ebbing back to a less overwhelming distance and allowing him a moment's peace. He does not understand the information presenting itself to his awareness but he can think, and this is sufficient. He tries again to rise and feels his limbs respond, but slowly, reluctantly. They are cold, Justice realizes, not truly understanding. Cold is ice and snow, but not—

Mortals.

Flesh.

Dizziness spins through Justice's mind. _This cannot be_, he argues with himself. He is a spirit. He is not meant for the world of mortals, therefore he is not _in_ the world of mortals, but incomplete scraps of information weave themselves together into an unsettling picture. He is a spirit and he is in flesh; the Baroness is not a creature of care; the Veil was compromised before the final spell was cast. _Flesh is not cold_, Justice protests. The memories that twisted themselves into his being are full of flesh, and it is tough sometimes, and smooth and round at other times, but except for Aura's fingertips, flesh is warm.

Living flesh is warm, comes the answer, a shifting and resettling of the new information. Dead flesh is cold.

Justice's protest dies. He turns his focus outward, away from the small steady core of his own being and down into the body he now inhabits. His awareness absorbs the unfamiliar stimuli coursing through the dead remnants of nerves, feeling sparking in time with the pulse of magic that traps him within this flesh. The body responds to his will, though it seems so little, so slow and inadequate and unlike anything Justice knows. When one thinks, one _does_; now it is an effort to animate this odd container, to enervate stiff legs with motion, to focus his will on the precise series of acts necessary to set himself to rights. Hands first, numb and clumsy, palms planted to the ground. Then strength through the arms, a push against the odd heaviness of this world, then knees and feet, gathering beneath him.

This body seems to remember uprightness. Once off the ground Justice lets memory guide him (his father had sparred with him, had knocked him down and smiled, extended a hand to pull him back up, but Justice does not have a father and does not know what to do at the insistent flood of feeling that accompanies the word).

Once standing, his balance is precarious but adequate, and Justice steels himself for the worst and opens his eyes.

The world is like nothing he has ever known. The vista seems drab and terribly permanent, locked to its own reality, these—trees? The word comes a moment behind the image in his mind, dead branches reaching toward the darkness above—he cannot see through them or around them, and they have no spirit of their own, no essence he can detect.

For perhaps the first time in his long existence, Justice feels uncomfortably alone.

But there are others here, other beings, so slow-moving and so much a part of this terrible sameness that he does not recognize them as separate entities at first. The sorceress, Justice thinks, seizing upon the sensation of magic, and there is the other mage, as well. He can feel the energies they command, an eddy and flow in the world around them, and it isn't sufficient to comfort his unease but it is a relief to no longer be alone. "Gr—" His tongue will not move properly and he cannot address them. Justice swallows, feeling flesh give way in his throat, a dank and bitter taste in his mouth.

The leader is frowning at him. "Kristoff?"

Justice does not respond a moment, baffled. And then: memories, like a physical weight dragging at his brain, eager to fill in the gaps. Kristoff was the man who inhabited this body, Kristoff… _was_… this body, in a manner of speaking. These are Kristoff's hands, which know battle, and Kristoff's muscles which know work, and Kristoff's blood…

There is another force at work here, Justice realizes, listening to the dull roar of it in what remains of this body's blood.

"I don't believe that's Kristoff," the dark one says, fingers ready on his bow.

Justice tries to force aside his preoccupation. "I am Justice," he says by way of agreement. "I am…" Words fail him, briefly, the terrible immutability of the mortal world striking at him again like a blow. "I am not supposed to be here."

-oOo-

The Wardens confer for a very long time. Or perhaps it just seems a long time. Justice cannot tell. In the Fade there is little idea of time, but he can feel it acutely in this alien place. The Wardens argue in low voices some little way off, statements punctuated by gestures Justice does not entirely understand. He observes the moon, pale and glowing as it sinks beneath the horizon; he watches the waters of the marsh as they ripple and shift; he perceives the infinitesimal slackening of Kristoff's body as it decays around him.

They are running out of time.

The Wardens had not been swayed by his insistence that the Baroness is nearby and he does not know what to make of their caution. He might find it prudent in other circumstances. Now he finds it a frustration.

At long last their huddle gives way, and they approach. "Shall we battle the Baroness, then?" Justice asks, intent.

The lead Warden gives a slow nod, unsatisfied. "It's possible that the Baroness' death might send you back to the Fade."

Justice experiences a pang of something he cannot name. "That would be most desirable. I have no wish to inhabit your world or this body for longer than necessary."

She glances back at one of her men, but Justice does not know what to make of the exchange of looks. None of them appear satisfied. Justice does not know what to make of that, either.

"Yes ," the leader says. "Let's find the Baroness."

"Because fighting her once wasn't enough," the other mage complains. "We get to do it twice. Lucky us."

"We bested her once," the leader reminds him. "We can do it again, Anders."

"She will be more difficult, here in this realm," Justice cautions. "She is no longer a creature of this world." He can feel her presence, a jagged wrong on the edges of his senses. "There was such a mortal, once, but now? The Baroness is a demon of pride."

"Great," Anders says, expression shifting. Justice watches in puzzlement as emotion animates the mage's features. "Demon of _pride_?" He settles his hands on his hips. "I quit."

The leader gives him an irritated look. "We can still handle this—"

"He said a pride demon wasn't something to handle," another of her fighters interrupts. Justice tries to prod his new memories into relinquishing a name for the armored man but it seems Kristoff didn't know him. "He said for a pride demon we'd run and die anyway."

"Run and _scream_ and die anyway," Anders corrects. "The screaming part is very important."

"This isn't funny."

"It doesn't matter," the leader interrupts. "We'll kill it."

"You've killed a pride demon, then?" the fighter demands, rough-voiced.

"Yes." The stone at the tip of her staff flares a little with brightness, a brief surge of magic; Justice watches in fascination. "Uldred."

The word means nothing to Justice (or to Kristoff's memories), but it does something to the armored man: he hesitates, and drops his gaze, and seems to think.

"Let's go," the leader orders.

"Again," Anders says, sighing, but Justice pays him little attention. He was not wrong to seek the aid of these Grey Wardens after all. The memories of this body respond to the title: Grey Wardens are allies, are friends, though Justice does not know what to make of the concept of friendship.

Kristoff was a Grey Warden, he realizes.

He does not know what to make of that, either. For the moment he merely walks with the other Wardens, intent on his purpose: to kill the Baroness, to rid the world of her evil, and to bring justice to the lost souls of the Blackmarsh.

It's a sort of comfort to be in the company of warriors, though Justice has never known anything quite like it. The souls at the mercy of the Baroness were creatures to be pitied, to be defended, but these Grey Wardens seem something more. Their presence provides him assurance, something like kinship. Justice wonders if it is something to do with the force lurking in this body's blood, because it feels like no magic he can identify and there must be more to it than simple proximity.

Justice nods at each of them through the hasty introduction the leader offers as they prepare to storm the Baroness, and he sizes them up in turn: Therrin and Anders, he knows, putting names and faces to the dual wells of magic echoing across his senses, Cullen, with a greatsword and an unwavering glare, Nathaniel and Sigrun, who stay close together, weapons ever at the ready. Justice approves of Cullen's armament and Sigrun's sturdiness; Nathaniel, he thinks, is pitifully armored, and would be first to fall in a fight.

He wonders if he should point out as much.

There isn't time, however. Therrin makes a direct approach, and the Baroness is not quite through crowing in triumph before the first blow is struck. The demon staggers from the wave of cold before green light erupts from her eyes and a roar splits the air as she changes shape, revealing her true, hideous form.

Justice leaps into action eagerly. Each swing of his blade brings an end to this injustice closer, and he will bear the weight of this mortal body gladly if it makes him a better tool against darkness. A sharp-silver blade whistles through the air alarmingly close to the remains of his ear and the Baroness bellows as Cullen's sword tears across the back of one thigh and she staggers, hamstrung. Justice prepares to move in for the kill when a high yowl pierces the clearing, and Justice turns in alarm just in time to see Sigrun scramble up the Baroness' spine, axe and dagger readied. She lunges for the demon's throat and her blades find purchase. There is a black spray of blood, and the Baroness crashes to the ground, twitching once before her body falls still.

Sigrun leaps free, an odd skipping motion, pushes her helmet back on her head, and bobs a curtsy.

Justice watches, nonplussed, as Nathaniel tucks away his bow and applauds, wry and seeming amused. All the Wardens seem pleased, he realizes, taking in the sight of their smiles.

But there is no tug from the other side of the Veil, no sensation all at being pulled home to the Fade. He had attached himself to Therrin's words, to the idea of the Baroness' death providing a gateway back to the Fade. Justice strains for any iota of feeling, the barest suggestion of a pathway home.

Nothing.

With all the Wardens celebrating around him, Justice despairs. He is trapped here, then, bound to this mortal world, this mortal body. He is locked inside this decaying brain with Kristoff's memories, severed from all that is familiar.

"Justice?"

He snaps from his reverie and stares at Therrin, who watches him in… concern? Justice cannot tell. "I remain here," he says simply, an ache inside him making it hard to speak. "I had hoped… I am uncertain of what to do," Justice confesses. "I had not wanted to come to your world. Now I do not know how to return to the Fade."

"Death," Cullen says, moving into place at Therrin's side, sounding stern. "Dying would send it back to the Fade."

Justice considers it, wondering at the part of his mind that quails at the thought. Is this what it is to fear? He is trapped within dead flesh, true, but he has never died. It is impossible to know if he would be forced into oblivion or drawn back to the Fade. He is not mortal, his spirit may not behave as would a mortal's soul. The thought of nonexistence is a terrible one. "I do not wish to die."

Therrin is silent. Justice watches in growing uncertainty as she seems to think, and finally he can keep quiet no longer. "What would you have me do, Grey Warden? You are mortal." Justice shifts, his armor uncomfortable. It does not feel that it suits him. "You know this world, and you seem of righteous character."

Anders makes a face. "Who, Therrin?"

Justice wavers, uncertain.

"Anders," Therrin says, impatient. When she turns back to Justice she seems… thoughtful? Aura used to wear a similar expression. "What do you want to do?"

"I do not wish to die," Justice repeats, because it cannot hurt to reiterate the importance of the point. "And I wish to return to the Fade. But as I am unable…" At her nod, he continues, thinking slowly. "This man, Kristoff. He was killed by the darkspawn. The First?" A surge of memory twists across Justice's mind, an ugly visage and an uglier well of hatred.

"The darkspawn who brought us into the Fade, yes."

Justice nods. "I understand, now. I would continue this man's mission, if you will allow me." There is an echo in his mind, something like approval. Kristoff died fighting, would have wanted to be avenged. Justice straightens. "The Baroness is dead, but there must be justice for Kristoff's death, as well. I would accompany you to slay the darkspawn, Grey Warden." Surely this is a worthy cause, now that the Baroness is slain: he can fight to rid the mortal world of these darkspawn, can serve Kristoff's memory by aiding the members of his Order, and perhaps he will die fighting, as Kristoff did before him.

Perhaps then he can return to the Fade.

"No," Cullen says, expression twisted into something Justice cannot identify. "Absolutely not—"

Therrin holds up a hand, and Cullen's mouth closes abruptly. He glares, and Justice wonders what he has done to merit such outrage. "Why?"

Justice considers it, taken aback. "I know of nothing else to do."

She looks at him a long time. Justice looks back, expectant, sifting through his memories to determine if he should speak. At long last she nods, slowly, but she does not seem pleased. "Very well. Come with us, then." And then to Cullen: "The conditions we discussed _will_ apply. Indefinitely."

Cullen looks marginally less displeased as she turns down the path, and Justice watches her go in puzzlement. Anders follows close at her heels, then Nathaniel and Sigrun, and then only Cullen is left. "I do not understand," Justice admits. "What does it mean, 'the conditions you discussed'?"

Cullen gives him a hard look. "It means that the moment I suspect you of harming anyone, I kill you," he answers, voice low and unpleasant. Justice begins to protest that he does not intend to harm any of the Grey Wardens, but Cullen interrupts, seizing his arm and holding him back, preventing him from following the others. "You _will_ stay away from the mages," Cullen says. "And I will be watching you. Do you understand?"

Something in Justice's mind rebels—the mages are gateways to the Fade, are conduits of the magic Justice already misses so sorely—but this is the mortal world, he reminds himself, resignation settling into his mind. So much is different; that this would be different too is not unreasonable. "I understand," Justice answers. Cullen nods toward the path and Justice walks in the direction the Wardens had gone, a blade at his back and the mortal world's sun dawning at the horizon.


	26. Now and Tomorrow

Sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, Therrin stretches her numb fingers and wishes they'd thought to bring tents. Not that they could have known from the outset they would be recovering from a trial in the Fade, granted, but it always takes so long to feel as though she's properly back in her own body. A little privacy would have been nice. Repairing the last remaining tears in the Veil had only worn them all down further; battling the dragon to mend the final Veil tear had almost done them in.

They'd pulled it off, though. Now if they only had something to eat.

She can't be the only one wishing it, either, she thinks, looking up at the rather pitiful little camp. Nathaniel had trekked off to hunt and Sigrun had fallen asleep, but Anders had been moping since before they'd even gone after the dragon. As Cullen returns from patrolling the perimeter, Anders flops down on Therrin's bedroll, sprawling loosely. "When we resort to cannibalism," he announces, "I'd like it known for the record that I'm stringy and completely unsuitable for eating."

"We're not going to resort to cannibalism."

He ignores her, sighing. "What I wouldn't do for some Fade-chicken." He lifts his head a fraction, fingers laced behind his ponytail and peering at Justice some little distance away. "Do abominations have to eat?"

Justice looks perturbed, standing rigidly by a dead tree in a blank sort of distress. "I am a spirit. Not an abomination."

"Actually," Anders begins, "I—"

"I was told that if an abomination retained its humanity then it wasn't an abomination at all," Therrin interrupts, wishing for a moment that she'd brought Dog and left Anders at the Keep instead. The statement earns her twin expressions of incredulity from Anders and Cullen. Anders looks like he might burst out laughing but from Cullen's expression, she may as well have suggested that Andraste was only a particularly intelligent mabari.

Justice still looks troubled. "I have no humanity to retain," he insists, ever-so-helpfully. "I am a spirit."

"You are an abomination." Cullen's expression is hard, his voice final.

Justice isn't quite so easy to read as Anders, but the sense of his silent distress intensifies. Therrin hesitates. "Give us a moment, would you?" She jerks her head at Anders, who huffs his way back to the other side of the campfire. Justice stands by the dead tree and turns his face away, staring at the fire. Even with the distance Therrin's bedroll isn't private by any means, but it's better than nothing.

"He _is_ an abomination," Cullen insists, voice low.

"And he's right there." Therrin tries to rein in her frustration. "If you want to kill him, kill him." Last autumn he wouldn't have hesitated. Now he gives Justice a long look, unsettled but not reaching for his sword, either. "If he's too dangerous to keep with us, kill him. If not, telling him he's an abomination every time he turns around isn't going to help." The niggling half-memory of before clicks into place when she glances over at Justice again, so utterly still he seems to blend in to the trees. He looks as frozen in this world as Cullen had been in the Fade.

_You can't afford to pity him_, comes the mental reminder, wary and distrustful. But she can afford not to kill him as long as Cullen is here. "Did you mean that, before?" she asks on impulse. Cullen looks momentarily confused. "When you said you wanted me to marry you," she clarifies, the words feeling strange in her mouth.

Cullen's brows draw together. "Yes." He glances to Justice and back at her, troubled. "Why would you think I didn't mean it?"

"We'd just come out of the Fade. It almost felt like part of a dream," she explains.

"I meant it," Cullen says, giving Justice a last skeptical glance, one eyebrow raised. "Are you trying to change the subject?"

"No. Yes," she amends, because she'd rather not discuss abominations anymore if she can help it. "I guess I am."

-oOo-

The rug in the corridor is too expensive to wear out with pacing, Varel thinks, though he isn't about to say as much to the First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi.

Varel hears a little bit of everything that goes on at the Keep. He knows that the staff have afforded her a wide berth; he knows the soldiers-in-training have been keeping out of sight (except for one or two of the lads who invent excuses to walk by, necks craning in curiosity); he knows the entire Keep is aware that she is an extremely important visitor.

He has no idea what to do with her.

If she'd been one of the visiting nobles, he might have a better idea. She might care to hunt, or to visit the seaside, or to be entertained with whatever resources Varel might be able to scrape together. But she isn't interested in hunting, or the sea, or in anything Varel has to say. Instead she spends the days in a distracted fuss with Stephen and Dog in tow and the evenings in a restless reverie, pacing down the corridors, watching out the windows toward the road.

"Are you and the Commander close?" he ventures once, trying to make polite conversation. He's seen this level of preoccupation before in mothers and spouses, but the Commander hadn't let on any connection of the sort and Varel doesn't care for the feeling of being at loose ends.

"I suppose so," the First Enchanter says distractedly, and then with a frown creasing her forehead, "which direction is it to the Blackmarsh?"

He feels as though he had only just managed to dissuade her from setting off to the Blackmarsh on her own. She'd shrugged off the words _haunted_ and _darkspawn_ as though they meant nothing, and only brooded when he had assured her that the Commander would be back any minute now.

It had been 'any minute now' for days.

But she'd retired at last, and for another evening Varel can breathe a sigh of relief. There is an endless list of matters needing attention, only compounded by the Commander's absence and the First Enchanter's presence. While midnight isn't normally the time of day he would've chosen to begin tackling paperwork, it's as good as any, under the circumstances. It's closer to one when the knock comes at his door, the guard running up the stairs to inform him of the Commander's return. Varel sets his papers back in their drawer and locks it, and then hurries down to the main hall. _Thank the Maker you're back_, he thinks, and then, with an amused sort of pique: _she's your problem now._

It is, Varel thinks, slowing at the sight of the Wardens, rather less than a triumphant return. They look grubby and bone-weary as they slump into the hall, all of them.

He stops in place, the chill of a shock going through his bones. He couldn't have claimed to know Kristoff well, not at all, but he never forgets a face. Even sunken and gaunt, Varel knows Kristoff when he sees him, but his eyes are milky, his skin greyish, stretched tight in some places and hanging slack in others. _He looks dead_, Varel thinks, and suppresses a shudder, _dead and still walking around_. "Commander. You found Kristoff, I see."

The Commander winces, a fleeting expression. "Yes and no," she hedges, and then with a hand passing over her eyes, "we've got a lot to discuss."

That doesn't sound promising at all. "I see." He considers the low-burning torches and the lateness of the hour, the quiet of the Keep and the rather miserable state of the Wardens (did they crawl on their elbows through a pigsty, or does it just look that way?). "Tonight, Commander?"

She hesitates. "No. I think tomorrow might be better." She rubs at one bloodshot eye. "Is there anything that has to be done tonight?"

"I don't believe so. You should know that the First Enchanter arrived shortly after your departure, and has been waiting for you ever since," he amends. The Commander and Cullen exchange a glance, worried. Varel doesn't know what to make of it. "Everything else can be dealt with tomorrow."

The Commander mutters something vaguely thankful. "Tomorrow, then."

While the Wardens disperse to their quarters Varel calls on those servants still awake, making arrangements for food and baths and a proper welcome back to the Keep. When he returns to his own quarters he can't seem to fall asleep, despite his fatigue. The image of Kristoff's face is a disturbing one, hanging in his mind with a phantom's fixation, and his dreams that night are as unsettled as the air outside as a fitful wind rolls in from the sea.

-oOo-

The quiet splash of water brings Therrin around from sleep, and it takes a moment to remember why she's waking up in a bed instead of a thin little bedroll. She'd been so tired when they came back to Vigil that their arrival had felt almost like a dream, but it's nice to wake up like this, cocooned in sheets as the light slants down hazy and white through the windows, alone in the big room.

Only not quite. The splashing is quiet but close, and blinking against the light she raises her head the littlest bit to find Cullen, bare to the waist and leaning over the basin by the wall, swishing something in the water.

"Do you always get up this early when you don't have to?" she asks, yawning, and pulls up the sheet from where it had twisted around her leg.

"Not always." There is lather on his face, a thick coat of white that only makes his hair seem redder, and when he glances back at Therrin there's a little smile at the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes I get up earlier."

"You're a madman," she grumbles, and stretches in place as though she could be lazy enough for two. Outside this room there is an arling's worth of trouble, and Varel and responsibility and Wynne. The thought is almost enough to chase her back under the blankets to hide.

"Some of us got used to having morning prayers and didn't get to laze about like some other people. Who shall remain nameless, of course," he adds in afterthought, scraping the razor carefully up his neck and leaving behind a faintly pinkish strip of clean-shaven skin.

"Generous of you," she mumbles.

"I thought so."

And she could sleep, she knows, or at least doze in the blankets. Cullen would be quiet and try not to wake her, and then maybe later she could have another long, hot bath without any darkspawn or interrupting Anders or anything, and the thought's got a certain appeal. But the sunlight streaming in is soft, lulling, and the play of shadow and light across Cullen's back and arms is more appealing than sleep. Dragging the sheet with her, Therrin wriggles into a patch of sunshine and props up on her elbows to watch.

He is careful, which is no great surprise, since Cullen is always careful and having a razor on his face shouldn't be any sort of impetus to change that. He glances back from time to time, bemused at having an audience but quiet save for the scraping sounds of the razor and the swish of it in the water. He peers into the little mirror, considering, running a hand down the line of his jaw. "How do you feel about beards?"

Therrin's eyebrows draw together. "They're… fine. I suppose." _Beards are for old men_, she thinks, _like Greagoir and Irving_, but she doesn't want to bring any of that up now. She stays quiet, kicking her feet idly in the air and stretched on her stomach, watching. His hands are methodical, efficient, and she doesn't say anything when he shaves off the little bit of stubble at his chin that she's gotten so used to until he nicks a spot just under his chin and without thinking she casts a tiny healing spell.

Which earns her a look over his shoulder, faintly annoyed.

And so, admittedly, she's supposed to give fair warning before she uses any magic on him, but before he can even reach up to wipe away the little drip of blood the skin's already closed and she gives a wince and a wave of her fingers in response.

Whatever he was going to say, she doesn't know. He snorts and turns around to hide his smile, which is utterly ruined by the fact that he's facing a mirror and so she can still see him. "That's my favorite part of the Chant, you know," she says, his skeptical glance over his shoulder only making her grin widen. "'Magic is meant to serve man, especially when he cuts himself shaving so he doesn't get soap in it and it burns.'"

He shakes his head. "I think your religious education may have been a bit lacking."

"My education was just fine."

"And I think you simply can't bear not to be involved," he goes on as though she hadn't interrupted, muffled a bit by the rough little towel over his mouth as he rubs his face clean. "I hadn't considered the consequences of being attached to such a nosy person."

"Nosy?" Therrin snatches up a pillow and tosses it at him. He catches it easily, one-handed. "You're the one who had your nose in my business watching me for ten years."

"It wasn't ten years, and I wasn't watching _you_," he retorts, tossing the pillow back and hitting her feet. "Half the time I was reading over your shoulder. Do you have any idea how boring standing watch in the library could get?" At Therrin's expression he laughs. "And you have really questionable taste in books, by the way. It's time someone told you."

Therrin stares at him, embarrassment running in a hot tide up through her face. "I do not!" Admittedly there for a while when she was younger there had been a string of racy novels she'd hidden inside more respectable books, but everyone had done it and she had never been caught.

Or so she had believed.

"Something about a chevalier, wasn't it? How did it go?" He thinks, frowning. "I can't even remember, now, just that it was the most lurid thing I had ever seen." He dodges as she throws the pillow back harder. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to stand over your shoulder and see you reading that garbage and not die of embarrassment?"

"You didn't _have_ to read them," she retorts, torn between amusement and mortification.

"No, but it wasn't just the books," he admits. "It was watching you read them. And not being able to do a single thing about it."

At the idea of Cullen standing in place getting silently worked up she can't help but giggle into the mattress, shoulders shaking with laughter, and so it catches her off-guard when he rushes at the bed. She laughs again in surprise as the mattress bows from his weight, and tries to wriggle away and can't, the sheet pulled taut across her body by the pressure of Cullen's hands and knees. "There were moments," he confesses with his lips to her ear, "where I was convinced you were trying to drive me mad."

Her embarrassment evaporates in an instant, giving way to something far more enjoyable. "I can't move," she complains, straining against the sheet but unable to extricate herself.

He pulls away, just a little, looking undeniably pleased. "Now _this_ is appealing," he murmurs, voice warm and a little rough as he rakes her over with a lingering glance.

Therrin raises her head a little, curious. "Is it?"

"Yes," he admits, running one warm hand over the taut sheet holding her in. "Very much so."

Oh, Therrin thinks, and then: _well_. "If this is some kind of revenge for you getting yourself all worked up over the books, that was _your_ fault," she tells him, but his only answer is his mouth descending on hers, still damp and faintly soapy, his face smoother than she'd gotten used to and one of his hands sliding up the inside of her thigh. She arches against the confines of the sheet. "You're going to have to…" She bites her lip at the feel of his mouth through the cloth, hot and slightly wet. "To let go, to get those off," she finishes, glancing meaningfully downward at his trousers.

Except that apparently he can manage it one-handed, with more efficiency than she would have thought possible. He kicks the trousers away carelessly and she can't see it because of the sheet but she can feel the prodding at her thigh a moment before he slips inside.

And then there's an abrupt shock of separation as he pulls immediately back out and up and off the bed, moving in a hurry for the door. He throws the lock, frowning, standing naked before the door as thought it's a problem he can't quite solve. "What are you doing?" Therrin asks, propping on her elbows and utterly baffled.

"Wynne is here. Somewhere," he explains, and then with a significant glance at her still sprawled beneath the sheet, "Don't move."

Therrin snorts and he ignores it, dragging over a chair and wedging it beneath the doorknob for good measure, considering his handiwork critically. "I hardly think she's going to pick the lock and blast the door down," Therrin points out.

"I didn't want to be interrupted again." Apparently satisfied, Cullen crawls back into bed, settling back between her thighs. "You'll thank me later."

Therrin laughs, a bit disbelieving. "What's gotten into you?"

Cullen presses in close and doesn't seem interested in answering with words, and after a while, Therrin forgets that she'd ever asked the question.


	27. Mothers and Sons

Cullen's plant is dying.

He stands at the windowsill, more perturbed than he quite knows how to justify, fingering the brown-edged leaves without the slightest idea of what could be wrong. He'd tried more light and then less, more water and then less, moving it away from the heat of the window and then quickly back and nothing had helped. Stephen rests his chin on the windowsill, looking rather like a puppy as he considers the dying plant. "I watered it every day you were gone."

"Thank you," Cullen tells him, confounded both at the plant's gradual demise and his own disappointment. How is he supposed to raise a son when he can't keep a plant alive?

The idea that Wynne is doubtlessly waiting to see him doesn't help. He ought to be heading downstairs instead of lingering over the dying leaves. Therrin comes in and shuts the door behind her, sinking into a chair and holding her arm out for Stephen when he clambers into her lap. "Varel says congratulations."

The wide grin on Stephen's face had been there almost all day, and when he makes a face it's only for a moment before the grin comes back. He looks up to Therrin. "My face hurts."

"Then stop smiling," she says, amused.

"I can't."

She ruffles his shaggy curls, and turns her smile on Cullen. "We're going to have a talk with Varel when I get back. Things to go over, business to take care of. He's got another group of recruits rounded up for you to train, as well."

Cullen frowns. "When you get back from where?"

"Highever," she sighs.

Stephen's smile falters. "But you just got back."

"I know." She picks at the upholstery idly. "I don't want to go, either. But there's a group of hired soldiers at Highever Castle who've written in about joining the Wardens and I can't ignore them."

"Mercenaries?"

She nods. "I think something like that, yes. Supposed to be contracted until the restoration of the castle's complete, otherwise they would just come to Amaranthine. They're asking for my intercession on their behalf."

Cullen leans back against the stone of the wall and crosses his arms, not liking the conclusions he's drawing from her words. "It sounds like you're intending to go alone."

"No," Therrin assures him quickly. "Not really. I'll take Dog, and a few of Amaranthine's soldiers, for safety. But other than that, the politics of it are dicey enough. I can't very well barge in with a full complement of Grey Wardens and start conscripting people. I'm hoping to talk to the teyrn one-on-one, try and keep things as informal as possible. I don't intend to ask for very many of his hired soldiers, but at this point, even one or two would be an enormous help. You know how badly we need more Wardens. If they're willing to Join—"

"I know."

Therrin sinks further into the chair, adjusting as Stephen fidgets. "I could go with you," he ventures.

"It's too dangerous," she points out, regretful. "I'd rather you stay where I know you're safe. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You're not leaving today, are you?" Cullen asks.

She gives a rueful laugh. "No, thankfully. Tomorrow morning. There's still more to go over with Varel, later. I think he was just about to lose his voice earlier trying to get me caught up." Her expression goes distant. "Felsi stayed in Amaranthine."

Cullen's frown deepens. "Did she? Why?"

"Don't know. Varel didn't say if he knew. Just that Oghren had taken a job in the city guard, and got himself posted on the opposite end of Amaranthine from where Felsi's living." She ruffles Stephen's hair, fingertips disappearing into his curls. "Varel thought he might end up doing something that could look bad for the Wardens, and kept an eye on him. But apparently he hasn't caused any trouble for the guard." She holds loosely to Stephen in silence, looking thoughtful.

The quiet seems to thicken and stretch, a comfortable, worn-in wordlessness only spoiled by the nervous tension winding itself into knots in Cullen's brain. He swallows, thickly. "Is there anything else?"

_Wynne hasn't conveniently left, has she? _

Therrin regards him sympathetically over the top of Stephen's head. "Wynne's downstairs."

Blast. "Ah," he says, as though this is the first he's heard of it. Another thought occurs to him, uncomfortable and belated. "She hasn't… told everyone. Has she?"

"Told everyone what?" Stephen asks, interest perking.

"It's private," Therrin says, and then, to Cullen, "No, I don't think so. From what I can tell, it's just us. And her."

Which is a relief in its own, odd way. But she isn't going to go away and he isn't a coward, and there isn't any point in putting it off. "I should go see her, then," Cullen manages, and his mouth immediately goes dry.

Therrin nods, concerned. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. Thank you, but… no." Cullen uncrosses his arms and straightens, feeling rigid, but he crosses to the chair and plants a kiss to the top of her head, and then to Stephen's. "I'm fine."

He closes the door behind him when he leaves, heading out into the corridors of Vigil's Keep. It takes some asking—the keep isn't small, and 'downstairs' doesn't mean much when there are multiple floors—but the third time he inquires after the First Enchanter's whereabouts he gets pointed in the direction of the mages' training room. The door is cracked open in apparent invitation, and when he peers inside he spots Wynne at the little table, gazing blankly at an open book. Cullen doesn't think he makes a sound but she glances up anyway, looking preoccupied until her gaze falls on him and her expression brightens. "Cullen. Come in."

He takes a seat across from her, looking numbly at her book, at the bare stone of the walls, at the shafts of light streaming in through the high windows. Anything but directly at her face, in a last minute avoidance of what's already too late to be avoided. "Hello." Cullen forces himself to calmness, an unnatural, restrained feeling that has nothing to do with serenity.

Wynne closes her book and sets it aside, settling against the high back of her chair as she considers him. "You look well."

"I am. Thank you." _Say something_. Cullen casts about for a safe topic of conversation. "How was your trip here?"

"Mostly unremarkable, thank you." Wynne folds her hands in her lap. "There were a few small pockets of darkspawn. No more than we could handle." She glances at the closed door behind his shoulder and shifts in her chair, a down-to-business look to her bearing. "You must have questions—"

"No." Cullen almost winces at the interruption, and stops himself. "I don't."

Wynne stills, looking momentarily stricken before her expression fades to calmness, and Cullen wonders briefly if it's the same sort of unnatural restraint that's holding him so still. But he doesn't know how to say _if I wanted answers I'd want to demand them of Greagoir; I was fine believing my parents were dead and I don't know you this way_. He latches on to that last, throwing the words into the silence in an effort to fill it. "I don't know what you expect of me."

Wynne considers his statement carefully. "I don't know that I expect anything of you," she admits. "You read my letter?"

"The first page of it. We were nearly to Vigil's Keep." A long-dormant anger flares in his chest, bitter and sharp. "If you were going to tell me the truth, I would have appreciated if you'd done it sooner. And not in a letter."

"Before you left the Circle?"

Cullen gives a tight nod.

"At the time," Wynne begins slowly, as though remembering, "you were in no condition to hear it."

"I would have wanted to know," Cullen insists, voice miraculously level. "No matter what condition I was in, I would have wanted the truth, not to have it kept from me. I'd liked to have heard it from you…" _from Greagoir, years ago_, he thinks, and he stumbles on the thought, "and not in a letter Therrin had to give me when I'd met some level of readiness I wasn't even aware of."

Wynne watches him, face impassive. "It wasn't my intention to keep it from you for long. There was no guarantee you would make it through lyrium withdrawal at all, you understand. It could have been a moot point." Which helps absolutely not at all, but before Cullen can say as much, she continues, "You were poised on the edge of a very fragile situation. I feared for you, and for your life. I knew that withdrawal would be difficult, and I couldn't in good conscience make it more difficult by telling you." Some of the impassivity bleeds from her expression, making her look younger, more vulnerable. "Was it?"

Cullen tries to gather the ragged edges of his own feelings, but they seem determined to slip out of his control. "Was it what?"

"Difficult."

He takes a breath to answer and stops, memories and their reverse spinning dizzily through his head, the nightmarish prospect of losing all that he had ever been. It rushes back in an instant, undiminished for the time between then and now: the feeling of slipping, breaking, of rages he still only half-remembers and weeping he remembers only too well, the hopelessness that had clung to him like a second skin even after the worst of it had passed. "I'm fine," he says, finally.

Wynne waits, but Cullen doesn't elaborate. "I see." Her expression doesn't change. "It wasn't my intention to hurt you."

Only _hurt_ doesn't quite hit the mark. Cullen sits in uncomfortable silence, avoiding her eyes and utterly uncertain of how to respond.

"Perhaps it isn't quite the case that I came with expectations," Wynne says carefully, when the well of quiet becomes suffocating. "But rather, with hopes." She leans forward, catching his gaze and holding it, serious as she'd been when they'd worked side-by-side at the Tower. "I'd hoped to see you for myself, and to find you well. I'd hoped we could talk. And I hoped most of all that you were happy."

"I am," Cullen says, and it's true enough that saying it is a relief, an answer he can give without reservation. And then why it comes out like a challenge, he doesn't quite know, but it does. "I'm marrying Therrin."

A fraction of the unbearable heaviness eases away as Wynne laughs, face relaxing into a genuine smile. "Yes, I know. If the news hasn't made Denerim yet, I'll be surprised." She looks over his shoulder again at the door, and Cullen turns, but sees nothing. "I won't keep you long. I heard Therrin's leaving again tomorrow," Wynne says, pushing back in her chair and rising to her feet. "But thank you for coming to see me. Perhaps…" she hesitates, expression soft again, pleased in a way Cullen doesn't quite know how to interpret. "Maybe we could talk another time, before I leave."

Cullen nods. "Very well."

Wynne's fingertips settle on his shoulder only for a moment as she leaves, a touch that leaves Cullen sitting in solitude for long minutes after the door closes behind her, working through the conversation in his head. Nothing has changed, he reminds himself. They are still just as they've always been.

But dwelling over it doesn't solve anything. With a deep breath that banishes the worst of the lingering tension, Cullen leaves the empty room behind and heads upstairs, back to his rooms and the family he knows is waiting for him.

-oOo-

With her wine cradled in one hand, Wynne watches in bemusement as Therrin pours herself a cup of tea. "Just being cautious," Therrin says at Wynne's arched eyebrow, drawing over another paper to read and sign. "I need to be in some kind of condition to head out tomorrow morning."

"I think you could tolerate one glass of wine," Wynne says mildly, relaxed at last. Travel had been wearying and the tension of waiting for Cullen to return had sapped her reserves, but here in Therrin's office there's both enough privacy and the right kind of company to put her at ease. "Though not much more, probably. Last time I recall you indulging, you embarrassed Cullen rather spectacularly."

Therrin's expression goes blank as she tries to remember.

"Half-dozen redheaded babies," Wynne offers, amused, burying a smile in another sip of wine.

"Oh." Therrin's cheeks redden a bit. "That."

"Mmm."

"And then he…" Therrin traces back the memory, fingers lacing around her cup. "He didn't _actually_ carry me to bed, did he?"

An errant pang lances its way through Wynne's heart, an echo of an old pain and the ashes of envy. She shrugs off the feeling, thinking back, instead. "He did, as I recall. After you'd declared your intention to bear his children. And after you'd called him Alistair."

Therrin winces. "Ouch." She drains most of the tea in two gulps, undisturbed by the heat.

Wynne makes a noncommittal sound, pondering. "He's survived thus far. And I can't imagine he still holds it against you, all things considered. But speaking of survival," she goes on, the concern from her conversation with Cullen rearing its head again, "I meant to ask you how well Cullen handled the lyrium withdrawal. He insisted that he was fine, earlier, but…"

Therrin's eyes flick over the parchment, and when she glances up Wynne gets the sense of guardedness, new enough to be jarring. Therrin had been nearly as transparent as Alistair, once; now Wynne has the impression of a closing of ranks. "I think he _is_ fine," Therrin says mildly.

"And from the moment you left the Circle Tower until you arrived at Amaranthine, no one so much as stubbed a toe," Wynne retorts, impatience sharpening. "That isn't what I heard."

Therrin affixes her signature to the parchment and sets it aside to dry. "We survived," she says at last, pulling over more papers. "Though with the darkspawn in Amaranthine, it's been a closer thing than I'd like."

Wynne purses her mouth, unimpressed by the attempt to change the subject. Still, perhaps it's better not to press, not just now. "I heard that they've learned to speak. Is that true?"

"Yes. Not that they have much of interest to say, so far." She glances at Wynne in question. "Have you run across Anders yet?"

"No." Wynne takes another drink of wine, thinking. "Not yet. Though I did have quite a lot of time with Stephen while you were away." _He misses you, and you can't possibly think leaving him with a mabari is a good idea, and…_ Wynne reins in her impatient line of thought, settling for, "I think it's time you brought in a mentor for him."

Therrin shakes her head distractedly, draining the last of her tea before speaking. "I think we can get by without one. He's got Anders and me, and when this is over…"

"When this is over there'll be something else, and then something else, and you'll look up and Stephen will be a young man failing his Harrowing," Wynne interrupts, gratified that Therrin looks appropriately alarmed at the thought. "Time will get away from you whether you will it or no and you don't have an endless supply of tomorrows," she goes on. "He needs a mentor, or he needs to come back to the Circle, or he needs _you_."

"I'm _trying_," Therrin insists, aggrieved, and then looks as though she wishes she hadn't spoken. A visible attempt at collection passes across her face like a shadow.

Wynne doesn't quite sigh. "I realize that, yes." Therrin glares at an innocent blank spot on the desktop, dogged and silent, and Wynne has a moment's grim amusement at the thought that it's her lot in life to be the voice of reason for the absolute most obstinate people in all of Ferelden. If Greagoir hadn't died… the year was almost up, she could have passed the office on to Therrin, and laughed behind her books at the two of them for the rest of her life, relieved of the burden of leadership and freed to watch them lock horns in perpetuity.

_I hope that somewhere, you're horrified_, Wynne thinks at Greagoir's memory, _because all this serves you right for dying._

But pushing any further could backfire. Wynne leans back in her chair and tries a different approach. "Have you ever considered that you might have taken on too much?"

"The thought has occurred to me, believe it or not," Therrin mutters, a shade acidly. "I didn't get much choice in the matter. And it's not like I can just walk away from any of it."

"No," Wynne concedes, mulling it over. "But you're hardly the only capable person in all of Amaranthine. Your seneschal—"

"Is overworked already," Therrin protests. "He's juggling the Wardens and the arling as much as I am."

"Your second, then," Wynne offers, changing course fluidly with the ease of long practice. "Nathaniel, is it? He can go to Highever in your place while you stay and tend to Amaranthine." At Therrin's hesitation Wynne has a small surge of triumph, and presses, "Others need to see that your second-in-command has your full confidence, you know. If something happens to you and the matter is left in doubt, there could be trouble among the Grey Wardens at a vulnerable time. And in the meantime, delegating serves you far better than attempting to balance everything on your own."

Therrin considers it a moment in silence, a fleeting frown creasing between her eyebrows as she thinks.

"The better your success," Wynne continues carefully, "the better it reflects on the Circle. You're a representative for all of us, for better or for worse, and if you should fail…"

She doesn't have to explain how tenuous the rebuilding has been, how fickle public opinion can be with the entire country watching, how much depends on the idea of a mage being called to serve and doing it well. Therrin is already nodding, looking torn between ruefulness and resignation. "No pressure, right?"

Wynne ignores the moment's glibness, and as expected, it passes. "I'll look into the matter of finding a mentor for Stephen." Perhaps Adeline, if she survives her Harrowing, Wynne thinks. The girl is young but steady-minded, and could benefit from some time away from the Circle. The prospect of things to be done, the idea of working to create a greater presence for magi outside the Circle flexes in her mind like a muscle long-unused. Adeline, and then in a few years, another of the more experienced enchanters could serve at Vigil's Keep, and when the Circle can spare one, perhaps they can even send a representative to Alistair's court.

Wynne mulls over the possibilities in thoughtful silence. For now it will be enough to see to Stephen's education. Everything after that will have to wait until she returns to Ferelden.

"And I'll talk to Nathaniel about going to Highever," Therrin says, pensive.

It's enough, perhaps more than enough. Wynne wonders how many of these late nights there have been in this office, the candles burning low and Therrin still at the desk poring over paperwork; she wonders as well if it's done anyone any good. "Here," she says, pulling over Therrin's abandoned cup and refilling it, passing it back with a conciliatory smile. "I'm sorry. I truly didn't come to talk Circle business at you. Tell me…" She considers, cradling her wine in her hands. "Tell me what's happened, since you became the arlessa. I've only heard a little, here and there. I'd rather hear the whole story from you."


	28. The Clouds as The Gather

With the morning's training over Cullen makes his way indoors, catching a glimpse of Therrin and Wynne in the sitting-room as he heads to wash. It's a satisfying feeling, the pleasant tiredness of exertion, of sun and effort and hours spent in useful occupation. The men are in dire need of training, but there's promise there beneath the awkward fumbling and uncertainty.

He'd missed sparring with other templars more than he had realized when he'd first left the Circle Tower, and though this doesn't quite compare it's still enjoyable. There isn't the same sense of brotherhood, by any means, though there is a particular camaraderie that forms between men waving deadly weapons at one another in the name of mutual improvement. With his armor doffed Cullen stretches the tightness from his arms and back before washing, the humidity of the day making his shirt cling to his shoulders.

He'd thought he'd been no stranger to humidity, having lived in the middle of a lake, but this close to the coast it feels different, variable and tempestuous instead of ever-present and steady. Just now with the storm looming on the horizon the air feels as though it's thickening by the second, a faint, electric edge to the breeze as it knifes in from the sea.

Stephen sprints by the doorway, curls frizzed to a wild halo and Dog at his heels, the sound of claws disappearing down the hallway. Cullen follows, half-expecting to find someone giving chase, but Stephen ducks into the sitting room with Dog hurtling in after, flinging the barely-ajar door open wide a moment before they disappear from sight.

When Cullen hesitates at the doorway he finds Wynne already looking his direction, as though she'd been expecting him. "Good morning, Cullen."

"Good morning."

At the sound of his voice Therrin smiles, though she doesn't look up from her papers. Beside her is Varel, who Cullen hadn't seen from the hall, looking wry. "About time you got here. You're not in on this too, are you?"

Halfway to sitting, Cullen stops short, surprised. "In on what, exactly?"

"Eloping," Varel explains, the word laden with amused exasperation.

"It's not eloping." Therrin places her papers to one side and tears open the next envelope in her stack.

"It's as good as."

Dog crawls over on his belly and props his chin on Cullen's knee. Cullen scratches Dog's ears obediently. "This is the first I've heard of it." He glances at Therrin, curious. "Do you want to elope?"

"It's not eloping!"

Varel laughs. "You're the only one who'll see it that way, I'm afraid."

"I don't understand why there has to be a production made of it, is all," Therrin protests, shifting to accommodate Stephen when he nestles closer to her side. "Ten minutes in the chantry and it could be done, and everything wrapped up before noon."

"And then everyone in Amaranthine would wonder why you were in a hurry to marry so quickly," Varel points out. At Therrin's blank look, he clarifies, "They'd assume you were expecting."

"Expecting wh—oh." She makes a face. "That's nobody's business."

"You're the arlessa," Varel reminds her. "It's everybody's business."

Wynne looks from Cullen to Therrin, curious. "Are you?"

"Wynne." Therrin looks mulish, but Wynne only smiles serenely.

They'll have to discuss the subject of children at some point, Cullen realizes, filing away the thought for later, after the darkspawn threat is eradicated.

"We don't have the resources," Therrin mutters, frowning at the letter in her hands. "And the timing is horrible. The darkspawn are everywhere. It's stup—unreasonable—to expect the nobles to leave their lands and come to Vigil's Keep. Again." She glances up at Cullen. "Do you care one way or another? If we get married this morning or wait for a big ceremony, I mean."

Cullen considers it briefly. "I don't want it to seem like something we've rushed into." Not that there's any doubt between the two of them, he thinks, but they've enough problems without the people of the arling thinking them irresponsible enough to get married on a whim. And there _is_ something appealing about the prospect of having everything acknowledged, legitimized, to bring out into the open what had started in secret.

Strange to think that months ago a mere public confession of affection would have been fraught with danger for the both of them. Now everything is different.

"If you're attached to the idea of marrying quickly, I'll make some arrangements," Varel says at last, looking patient. "But you did ask my advice. Would you have me speak plainly?"

Therrin nods, still reading.

"Your presence as arlessa is enough in itself to be alarming for a number of your vassals. If you wish to avoid alarming them further, it's in your best interests to avoid the appearance of anything clandestine."

Therrin doesn't respond, frowning at the papers in her hand. In the silence Cullen shifts, uncomfortable.

"Clandestine," Wynne echoes, a shade doubtfully.

"Because Therrin's a mage," Cullen hazards, bolstered when Varel gives a nod, but by Andraste, why is _he_ always the one to have to point it out? "And a commoner."

Varel coughs, but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "I'm afraid the mage part rather eclipses everything else. But yes. It would do people good to see you hold to what traditions you can manage. Set their minds at ease, reassure them that there's more going on that's business as usual than not."

Which makes sense, Cullen thinks. He still can't wrap his head around the prospect of being an arl—the idea will subside into some recess of his mind to be temporarily forgotten and then rush back without warning, wholly perplexing in its magnitude—but he can understand the need of people to take comfort in continuity. "I say we wait, then," he decides. A few weeks won't make that much difference in the end, and it seems like waiting might be an investment in the security of Amaranthine. "Therrin?"

She doesn't look up, staring at the letter in her hand with a fixed, troubled expression.

Varel clears his throat quietly. "Commander." Therrin looks up at that, the paper wrinkling in her grasp. "Is something the matter?"

She frowns at the paper again, swallowing hard. "Isolde is dead."

The name doesn't register at first for Cullen, but Varel and Wynne both seem perturbed at the news. "Arlessa Isolde?" Wynne asks, and then the name clicks, aligned somewhere in Cullen's memory with the news of demons in Redcliffe, of abominations run rampant practically on the Tower's doorstep. "What happened?"

"Childbirth." Therrin lets the letter fall as though the bad news in it might be contagious. "She died in childbirth. Poor Eamon."

Wynne ponders the news. "Did the child survive?"

"Yes. A girl. But…" Her forehead creases in thought. "Eamon's made Teagan the arl. And gone back to Denerim, without his daughter," she murmurs, taking up the pages again, looking them over.

"I'd say that sounds sensible enough," Varel offers, contemplative. "Eamon's not a young man. He may not live to see his daughter reach adulthood. And Teagan has no heirs yet; he can name the girl his heir for the time being. Still, that must be a blow. I heard that his son died last year; to lose his wife as well…"

Therrin looks briefly stricken. "I know."

The news casts a pall over the brightness of the morning, adding its own heaviness to the already-heavy air, a lingering uneasiness that doesn't seem to fade until hours later when the storm breaks over Amaranthine.

-oOo-

There are worse places to be than Amaranthine during a summer storm, Nathaniel knows: the Deep Roads come to mind, especially when overrun with darkspawn, and prison, and the hold of a rat-infested ship. Knowing that he's lived through far less pleasant circumstances than this doesn't mitigate the feeling of being half-drowned standing up, of being pelted with raindrops so heavy and thick they almost hurt, or of trying to navigate the already-perilous ground as it swells with rain and overflows into an almost impassable mire. He'd given up on the road itself an hour before, resigned to threading his way through the sparse trees at the roadside. There should be an inn up here somewhere. The day had been shortened with the darkness of the storm and it might be for the best to take shelter for the night instead of trying to press on.

Provided he could _see_ the damned inn even if he was right at its doorstep, and there isn't any guarantee of that. The rain bears down in blackened sheets, obscuring everything, going silver when lightning tears in jagged streaks across the sky.

Just as well he had come in the Commander's place. She'd have brought guards, and men in heavy plate wouldn't make any progress at all in weather this wretched. One more day, he thinks, the sodden leather of his armor slapping against his thighs as he slogs through the roadside brush. He'll find the inn tonight and head out early in the morning. With any luck the rain will have let up and he can make Highever before nightfall.

What a notion _that_ is. Not for the first time, Nathaniel wonders if the Commander knows what happened to the Couslands. If she doesn't, then this could be an enormous mistake, and if she does… well. It could still be an enormous mistake.

Nathaniel isn't an optimist.

It's difficult to gauge the passing of time with the sky so obscured. For some time, he can't hear anything beyond the hammering of the rain, and then from the darkness comes a shout, thinned by the wind but alarmed and not far off. Nathaniel's attention sharpens in an instant as he tries to see through the curtains of rain, wary of what might be waiting on the roads as he heads in the direction of the noise.

A fight. He can hear it as he approaches, keeping to the shadows: the sounds of bodies in combat, of metal striking metal and then as he gets closer, the sounds of voices. One particular voice among them makes his stomach drop even as he hesitates.

What in the Maker's name would Cousland be doing out _here?_

It doesn't matter; Nathaniel is moving before he can think, too quiet to attract the attention of any of the fighters. Lightning tears across the sky, illuminating the combatants in a flash, and out of habit Nathaniel reaches for an arrow… but no. The rain would make it impossible, and at this distance he can't tell one fighter from another in the shifting mass of men and metal.

_You're not worth this_, he thinks venomously at Cousland a heartbeat before he seizes the hilts of his daggers and sprints into action.

Up close it's easier, much easier. The combatants slip and stagger in the slick mud of the road and none of them expect Nathaniel when he dives into the fray. A punch and then two and one of them goes down (it would be so much easier if he knew who he could _kill_) and then Cousland's voice again, close and pained. Another bolt of lightning hits close, bright enough to send Nathaniel off-balance with the intensity of the sudden illumination. As his vision clears he sees a glimpse of a sword, high and readied over Cousland's back, and Nathaniel hurtles in without thinking.

How he pulls it off, he doesn't know. Somehow he bears Cousland to the ground in a heavy mass of armor and tangled, sodden cloak, but before the other fighter can strike Nathaniel rolls, dagger in hand and instincts screeching to strike. Blood flows out hot down the blade and over his hand, instantly dashed away by the rain. The stricken man falls, gaping, and dies in a heap in the mud.

Satisfied, Nathaniel turns, stopping _just_ in time to avoid the point of Cousland's sword in his face, the teyrn himself still on the ground and grim, but his hold on the blade not quite steady. "I don't know—Nathaniel?" Cousland looks dumbstruck. Not an unusual look for him. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"I was coming to—where are my men?" He scans the dismal clearing of the road, now empty.

Nathaniel glares up at the rain and wishes he'd thought to wear a cloak, not wanting to point out that at least a few of the dead men on the ground are probably Cousland's. "Chased after the bandits, I imagine. Or taken."

Cousland struggles to rise and can't, grimacing in pain. "We have to go after them. They could be in trouble."

Nathaniel only barely keeps from rolling his eyes. "That's very noble of you."

Cousland gives him a hard look. "_One_ of us has to be."

Nathaniel bites back the first acid retort that springs to his lips, and then the second, and then the third. Finally, with a tight breath he says, "If they can't manage a few bandits on the road, they're not much use as bodyguards." He takes in the hunched defensiveness of Cousland's posture. "How badly are you hurt?"

Cousland grunts. "Not badly."

Liar, Nathaniel thinks, impatient. He was ever a miserable liar. "You're in no state to fight. Your sister would take it badly if you died in Amaranthine, of all places."

Cousland's head snaps up, face tense. "Is that a threat?"

_You're _such_ an idiot._ "Yes. Absolutely. I saved your life so that I could taunt you and kill you myself. Ask me another." Cousland doesn't answer, turning his face away. For a moment Nathaniel wishes again that he hadn't come. "There's an inn. It can't be far."

Cousland nods, slowly. "I know. We were heading back. It's a poor day for travel."

"Then your men can find you there. Let's go." He seizes a fistful of Cousland's cloak and hauls him to his feet, ignoring his poorly-stifled groan of pain.

The inn isn't far at all, though they approach at a snail's pace. The guttering torches by the doorway looking like reflections in a pond, shimmering and ever-distant. The innkeeper loses his bored look immediately at the sight of them staggering through the doorway and barks out orders to a pair of servant-boys in their wake. It isn't until the room door is closed behind them that Cousland relaxes, settling gingerly on the edge of the bed and grimacing, breath coming short in a way that makes Nathaniel think he might've broken a few ribs. "I think this arling hates me," Cousland confesses with a cheerless laugh. "And not just the people, the land itself." He swipes streaming-wet hair from his eyes, peering at Nathaniel. "What are you doing out here alone? You don't fight darkspawn single-handed, do you?"

_Yes_, Nathaniel almost says, _and blindfolded, too_. "The Commander sent me. I was going to Highever to meet you, actually. About the hired swords you've got on contract." At Cousland's blank look, he clarifies, "The ones who want to join the Wardens?"

Cousland looks doubtful. "I don't have any hired swords on contract."

Nathaniel frowns. "We received a letter from Highever about it, asking the Commander to come intervene."

"I don't have anyone on contract," Cousland says again, adamant. "And if I did, I wouldn't keep them from joining the Wardens. I've _seen_ darkspawn. I'd be the last to argue against the need for Grey Wardens." He attempts to lean over to remove his boots and apparently thinks better of it, leaning back slowly, expression tight. "I was coming to speak to your Commander, actually. Funny that you and I would meet on the road."

No, it isn't. Nathaniel lights another of the room's lamps to have something to occupy his hands, alarm prickling in the back of his mind. "Why would you need to speak to the Commander?"

Cousland lets out a slow breath, expression going guarded. For a moment Nathaniel gets the sense that he's weighing whether or not to answer. Finally, he says, "I got a visit at Highever. A friend of my father's. He seemed to think that Amaranthine wouldn't have an arlessa for long. 'One way or another,' he said." Cousland's eyebrows draw together. "He would say only that politics and tradition would take their course, but this is the first I've heard of it. I don't like it." He sighs, wincing. "If she's incapable—"

"She isn't," Nathaniel interrupts, irritated without knowing why_. One way or another_… if the letter hadn't been sent by a mercenary in Highever, who sent it? They'd asked for the Commander herself, too, from what he understands, and she would have stuck to the road. Cloaked and obscured by heavy rain one group of travelers looks much like another; if this entire endeavor was a ruse to lure her out of Vigil's Keep, away from the other Wardens and easy pickings for assassins… "I have to get back," Nathaniel says, the words sounding dull in the little room. As though in answer, thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to make the inn tremble and send the table-lamp rattling.

Cousland glances at the window and turns an incredulous look on Nathaniel. "What, in _this?_" At Nathaniel's silence, he shakes his head, disbelieving. "Look, no one's going to be out tonight. You'll drown before you're halfway back to Vigil's Keep."

"I'm touched that you care."

"I don't—damn you, do you have to make _every_ conversation this difficult?" Cousland's lips are outlined in white, Nathaniel notices distantly, but whether from pain or anger, he can't tell. "If this is a trap we've walked into—that is what you're thinking, isn't it?" Nathaniel nods. "Then there'll be more assassins out there. Is your Commander really loyal?" he asks, taking Nathaniel by surprise. "To me."

Nathaniel stares. "You're asking _me_ about loyalty."

"Forget it." Cousland braces his hands on the mattress, water still dripping down his armor and off the hem of his cloak; for a second Nathaniel thinks he looks very like he remembers Bryce Cousland looking Maker-knows-how-long ago.

"Yes," Nathaniel says at last, relenting. "She's loyal. Why?"

Cousland doesn't answer at first, considering the matter in silence. "I've had enough plots for one lifetime. I'll speak to her myself." He gives Nathaniel an impatient look. "Travel with us. We'll leave as soon as the storm lets up, after my men make it back. If there's trouble at Vigil's Keep I want to see it settled. Unless you're in a hurry to head back out into _that_." He waves a hand at the general direction of the window.

He should go, Nathaniel thinks, weather be damned. If there's a plot at hand to remove the Commander from Vigil's Keep, it needs to be dealt with, and quickly. But they are far from any real towns, logic counters in the back of his mind. He can still travel more swiftly than the news, even if he waits for the weather to relent, and if there are assassins lingering on the road waiting for another chance, it will be all the easier to kill them in daylight. He shakes from his reverie to find Cousland working at the fastenings of his gauntlets, dragging them off with an expression of relief. "I need a drink," Cousland mutters.

_Because that worked out so well the last time_, Nathaniel thinks. But bringing Cousland to the Commander as an ally is likely the best he can do to combat what forces might be scheming in the shadows. Nathaniel gives the rain-streaked window one last glance and grimaces, settling in to wait until the storm lets up and resigning himself to enduring the company of Fergus Cousland.


	29. Things Better Left Unsaid

Two drinks in. Only two drinks in, Nathaniel thinks in disgust, and Fergus Cousland can out-chatter any man in Ferelden. It starts predictably enough, at least—the absence of his men, and then his relief as two of them find their way to the inn to report to Fergus and are dismissed for the night—and then the topics begin to meander.

Worst of it all is that he keeps looking to Nathaniel as though Nathaniel's falling down on his end of the conversation. If it was a conversation, Nathaniel reminds himself, and it isn't. The inebriated mumblings of an over-enthusiastic idiot aren't of any importance and he isn't required to join in, no matter how expectantly Cousland looks at him. Nathaniel shifts his shoulder against the wall, trying not to fall asleep standing up and ignoring Cousland when he hoists a cup of liquor in offering.

"Here," Cousland insists, not getting the point.

"No. Thank you." Cousland shrugs and sets the glass back down, taking another drink from his own cup. "And you shouldn't be drinking," Nathaniel needles, scowling at the over-loose motions of Cousland's gestures and shrugs. "Attempted assassination isn't an excuse to wallow in stupidity. Unless you consider this taking it seriously?"

"This _seriously_ hurts," Cousland bites back, baring his teeth in what isn't quite a friendly smile. "Shame you didn't have better timing."

"So you intend to drink yourself useless?" Nathaniel makes a face and tries to rein in his mouth before momentum can carry him away. There's no point in talking to him at all. Just see him alive until morning, get him to the Commander, and then wash his hands of it entirely, he reminds himself.

"Maybe it's the only way I can stand being around a Howe." Cousland grimaces, looking dour and tossing back another swallow.

"That explains last time, then, as well," Nathaniel snaps, the echoes of an old mortification roaring back to life in a hot, angry tide. _Watch your mouth_, he insists to himself. The words echo in his brain in his father's voice; it only makes matters worse. Not quite as bad as Cousland's blank look. Maker's hairy ass, he doesn't even remember.

One interrupted kiss might not have been much in the grand scheme of things, but the idea that Nathaniel's the only one who remembers or cares stings like seawater in an open wound.

"Oh," Cousland says, several moments too late. "Right." He tries to laugh but stops, holding his ribs in one hand. Still, his look of good humor doesn't fade, amusement or the alcohol making his eyes bright. "Father never did let me live that one down."

Nathaniel glares, wishing he could char him to cinders with a look. "How precious for you that your father thought it was funny."

"We were boys! And _drunk!_" Cousland protests.

"_You_ were drunk," Nathaniel corrects acidly. At Cousland's look of astonished comprehension Nathaniel curses inside his own mind and wishes he'd shut up while he was ahead.

"You—"

_Sod this_, Nathaniel thinks blindly, _it isn't worth it._ "Tomorrow morning," he says darkly, stabbing a finger Cousland's direction in warning, but he can't bring himself to say more. He wrenches open the door with the full force of his annoyance and all but vaults into the hallway, leaving Cousland alone and for once, miraculously silent.

-oOo-

The plant seems determined to die. Cullen fingers the dry rims of the dying leaves, completely at a loss. The sound of the door opening barely registers above the low roar of the rain as it pounds away at Vigil's Keep, but Cullen glances over to find Therrin heading his way, damp and unhappy-looking, and he frowns. "Is something the matter?"

"No. Well… no. We ran into Kristoff's widow. It didn't go well," she explains, sinking into a chair close by with a noise of relief, for a moment looking every bit as morose and drooping as Cullen's potted plant.

He reaches out to offer the pitcher of water, but Therrin refuses with a silent shake of her head, reaching for wine instead. Cullen watches, concern beginning to gnaw at his mind. "Was she violent?"

"Oh, no." Therrin bites her bottom lip as she pours, pensive. "Upset, yes. Not violent. Put it this way: how would _you_ take it if you found out that I'd died and a spirit was walking around in my dead body?"

Cullen winces. "Badly." Which is an understatement, of course, but… better not to dwell on it. One side of Therrin's mouth quirks ruefully as she settles back in the chair, watching the motions of his hands as he examines the plant. "Varel asked me to tell you about the wedding," Cullen says some minutes later, just remembering. "A couple of weeks is the fastest he can manage. And no eloping."

"It wasn't eloping."

"I didn't say that it was." Therrin's nose crinkles, at that. Cullen turns back to his plant to hide his smile. "I'm only the messenger."

"You'll be the arl, soon," Therrin reminds him, slipping off her shoes and drawing her knees up to her chest. "You won't be 'only' anything. If you didn't want this, would you tell me?"

Cullen turns, surprised. "What?"

"The arling." She gestures at the window for emphasis. "If you didn't want to be involved, or if you're just going along for my sake and being very quiet about loathing the entire thing—"

"No, I'm not." Cullen hesitates, thrown off-balance by the idea. "Did you think I was?"

"I don't see how anyone could enjoy it," she admits. "And you're not exactly the chattiest man in the world, you know; if you're expecting me to just know what's going on in your head…" Cullen snorts a laugh before he can stop himself, and Therrin's expression goes wry. "Yes. Exactly." She taps her finger at the edge of the glass in a slow rhythm, thinking. "You don't have a family name, do you?"

"I… no," Cullen admits. "Is that a problem?"

"I don't know." Therrin's head tilts as she mulls it over. "All the nobles I know have last names. I suppose you could have mine, if you wanted."

He hesitates.

"What?" She frowns, defensive. "Amell is a perfectly good name."

"I know," he says immediately. "It's just…" Her eyebrows rise in expectation. "It isn't traditional," Cullen confesses, wholly uncomfortable. Therrin stares at him blankly a moment, expression contorting as she begins to snicker. He glares half-heartedly, only mildly annoyed at the prospect of being laughed at. "You think I'm funny, do you?"

But she isn't able to answer, not then, and apparently not until she drains her cup and sets it aside. "Cullen, it's _us_. If you're that worried about the possibility of upending some traditions, I've got some really bad news for you."

Cullen sighs and takes up the useless shears, as though waving them vaguely in the direction of the plant might help. "I'll consider it." Cullen Amell. It sounds… strange. Though really, any new name would be strange, wouldn't it? But _Amell_ is stuck in his brain as a specificity, as a particular name for a particular mage and not something that applies to himself. "And yes. I do really want this." The idea keeps manifesting when he least expects it, insistent and alluring thoughts about the unexpected beauty of Amaranthine in springtime, about the Pilgrim's Path and the teeming city, about the air and the people and a sense of home.

It isn't like being in charge of the Circle Tower, he reminds himself again, not really. If the whole concept is an imitation of a more familiar duty, he doesn't care to think of it that way.

Besides, Therrin's already the arlessa. There's no saying that anything will really change. Maybe he'll have a title to go along with his fruitless puttering over dying plants, that's all: Cullen the Incredibly Useless Gardener, and oh yes, the Arl or Arl-Consort or Something of Amaranthine. He runs the pad of his thumb over the brown edge of a leaf, watching as it cracks and crumbles.

"Here." Therrin rises and edges in close enough that he can smell the damp fur at her shoulders, magic building at her palms as she cups the stalk of the plant in her hands. He'd have been skittish of this, once, he thinks as the plant responds to the spell, rejuvenating. Magic isn't a toy and shouldn't be used for frivolous things like games or coming to the aid of incompetent plant owners. "It's not a permanent fix," she reminds him. Cullen nods silently and hopes that it'll be enough.

-oOo-

It's odd to watch the Grey Wardens prepare to go, feeling as though she should be with them. Which is silly, Wynne thinks. This is hardly the Blight. Aside from Therrin and Anders she doesn't know the rest of the Wardens at all. This impulse to join them isn't rational.

She doesn't know whether it's movement or just a sense of presence, but something tugs at her attention, and when she turns, she finds an armored Warden standing in the doorway. Wynne has lived long enough around helmeted men to know when she's being watched and normally it wouldn't even provoke the slightest bit of defensiveness, but there's being watched and then there's being stared at, and this man is most certainly doing the latter. "You are not a mortal," he says without preamble, his voice hollow inside his helmet.

Wynne's insides turn to water. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are not a mortal," he repeats, a shade more slowly as though she'd simply misheard him.

Too stunned to respond at first, Wynne only stares. When she recovers enough the impulse buzzes through her mind to hide but there isn't any door to shut, no easy way to beat a hasty retreat or to ensure privacy or anything satisfactory at all.

"You are a spirit," he says, almost hopefully.

"I…"

"I do not mean to alarm you. I am Justice." His gauntleted hands rise to remove his helmet. When he stands unhelmed he blinks calmly at Wynne from the face of a dead man. "You are a spirit, are you not?"

_I think I need to sit down_, Wynne almost says. But even through the defensive startling of fright comes an answering push, a warmth from within feeling like recognition, rooting her to the spot. It isn't magic, not quite, but there _is_ a sense to him, familiar in a way she can't quite define. Wynne clasps her hands together to keep them still. "Are you a spirit?" she manages, voice almost level.

"I am a spirit of Justice." He rakes her over with his eyes, top to toes and then back again, as though he isn't quite sure she's real. "You are a spirit, too, then? I do not…" His expression shifts slowly, more an echo than an impulse of emotion. "I do not intend to cause you pain. But I must know."

"Cause me pain?" Wynne echoes, uneasy.

"I frightened Aura," he explains, which clarifies nothing. "She expected her husband. She was most disturbed to see me in his body." The calmness of before evaporates entirely into agitation. "I believed myself the only spirit on this side of the Veil. Why are you here?"

"I…" A side-door swings open and the words at the tip of her tongue die at the sight of Cullen. Maker's mercy, of all the ways to destroy forever any relationship they might be developing… no, she thinks. "Come with me. This way." The newfound authority of her position is good for something, thankfully. He follows obediently when Wynne ducks into a side-room, squeezing past crates and shelves of books. "You must _not_ speak of this," she insists, rounding on him and advancing when he retreats in surprise. The door clacks shut and everything goes pitch-dark, and with an impatient spell she illuminates the room, the wisp-light throwing their surroundings into stark and eerie relief.

Disappointment passes across Justice's face like a shadow. "I do not understand."

"This is not an appropriate topic for discussion," Wynne informs him coolly. "There are those who—" _would kill me_ "would not understand." Foremost among them her templar son, besides him, her templar guard, the garrison of templars at the Circle, and every templar in the country, should they catch wind of the news.

He only looks at her a long moment, then nods. "You speak of Cullen. I see. He would consider you an abomination, as he does me."

The word _abomination_ sends a cold shock lancing through her chest, familiar and formidable as ever. "He knows that you're… a spirit?" Wynne manages, trying to choose her words with care over the clamoring alarm that makes thought so difficult.

"Yes." Justice tilts his head in thought. The gesture looks uncomfortably familiar. "Is he unaware that _you_ are a spirit?"

"Yes. He is," Wynne admits, every syllable bitten off sharply. With numb fingertips, she draws her robe in closer around herself, standing straighter. "It is in no way a matter meant for discussion."

"But how did you come to be in this world?" Justice asks, stepping closer. "I was drawn here in misfortune, from the carelessness of the Baroness, and I believed myself the only spirit on this side of the Veil. But now you have arrived. Have you lived among mortals long? I have a great many questions. Do—"

"I can't help you," Wynne interrupts, clamping down on a rising, defensive anger. "I must have your word that you will speak of this to no one." An inrush of coolness comes from within, a faint disapproval from the spirit sustaining her as it withdraws from her fear-driven vehemence. _I can't_, she thinks at it helplessly_. I can't, don't ask me to._

Justice merely looks at her. "It would be unjust to engage in deception."

_I must have done something truly horrendous to have my life always in the hands of the most _dogmatic_ people in the world. _"It would cause him pain to know," Wynne argues, holding to the thread of what he'd said earlier. "It would be unjust to cause him harm to ease your guilty conscience."

Justice frowns. "I do not understand. I am not guilty—"

"And neither am I."

His frown deepens. After a moment he shudders, a muscle in one cheek twitching in an unsteady rhythm. "I see." He straightens, shoulders squaring. "You have my word."

Cullen had looked like this when he'd been renounced from the templars: the same hopeless expression Justice wears now, the blank look of a man going through the motions of an empty life. Guilt pools at the back of her mind. "Thank you," she manages, feeling immeasurably more civil. "I appreciate your discretion."

It comes off colder than she intends. Justice nods once, eyes vacant, and says nothing.

_More_, the impulse nudges, the infusion of warmth from the spirit tugging itself Justice-ward as though drawn by a magnet. Wynne takes a steadying breath, the wisp-light strengthening in response to the calm. "It wouldn't do to speak of it now. If you have questions, perhaps we could discuss them another time. Privately," she emphasizes.

Justice seems to rally, at that. "That would be most appreciated."

"Another time, then."

He gives a nod that looks vaguely like a salute. "As you wish. Thank you. I will await your convenience." With nothing more than that he turns, and goes.

Alone in the storage-room, Wynne sighs into the silence, clenching her hands together and trying to snatch back serenity from the tangled knot of her jumbled feelings.

That night sleep is reluctant to come, the sweltering humidity left behind by the storm leaving her wrung out and tired but unable to rest. Her chemise sticks and clings and her thoughts race: phantoms of nightmares, worries that somehow Cullen will know, that even if Justice holds his peace that the admission itself will take on a life of its own, impossible to keep secret.

It doesn't. Morning brings a new set of concerns, instead, in the form of a cohort of nobles arriving not long after the sun rises.


	30. The Price of Dissent

Oghren is doing well. Therrin turns the thought over in her brain as they make their way back from Amaranthine, brooding over it in silence. It might be for the best that she hadn't actually seen him, though the constable had been pleased enough with him so far. _Better days than some_, he'd said, _like anyone else, I suppose. Shall I have him fetched for you, my lady?_

She had declined. With her staff denting the ground in points down the middle of the road, she wonders if she should have accepted. Just a few paces ahead of her Anders stops without warning, and she almost runs into his back as he stands still as a post in the road, neck craned as he peers into the distance toward Vigil's Keep. "Were we having a gathering at the Vigil today?"

"No." Therrin stands on tiptoe to see but she can't make anything out. "Why?"

"There's a crowd up at the gates." A vertical line deepens for a second in his forehead as he frowns. "A big one."

A crowd's worth of people leaving their homes now, with the darkspawn everywhere? Uneasiness prickles across Therrin's skin, a crawling feeling propelling her forward down the path. "Come on."

The scene at Vigil's Keep is chaos.

The trip to Amaranthine had been so utterly uneventful that the jeering crowd takes Therrin by surprise, the sight of clustered people sending her heart sinking as they shout incoherent strings of invective at Vigil's gates, their faces red with heat and rage. The warm bulk of Dog's side presses into her thigh as she edges closer behind the crowd.

 "I don't like this," Anders whispers loudly. "Can't we go around?"

Therrin spares him an incredulous glance. "To what, the back door?" This close, the roar of the rabble becomes distinguishable as individual voices, raw-throated calls for the tyrant to emerge and face the crowd. _Tyrant_, she hears again, and _Warden_ and then from the other side of the crowd, _witch_.

Anders sucks in a breath at that last. "_This_ is going to go well."

The words leave her feeling only numb, standing rooted in place, squinting against the glare of the sun and watching the people of her arling name her _tyrant_. Dog growls low and menacing beside her but for now the crowd seems oblivious to her presence behind them, shouting up at the gates of Vigil's Keep as though they could break open the fortress through the sheer force of their anger. Through the ever-shifting mass of bodies Therrin can see the flash of silverite on the steps, ranks of men in armor standing guard against the mob. Sigrun eyes the crowd grimly, fingers curling around empty air in want of her axe. "Are we going through them?"

Therrin doesn't answer, not immediately—she thinks she sees Cullen at the top of the steps but it's impossible to be certain it's him through the crush of bodies—and grips her staff tight enough to hurt, reservations coiling in uneasy circles in her belly. "I don't think I've got much choice," she admits, licking her dry lips and trying to don every word of Varel's instruction like armor against the crowd.

No one seems to notice the Wardens as they thread their way into the mob, not at first. The jostling crush of people is too big for a few more at the periphery to draw any attention, but there comes a tipping point where a murmur starts to spread, men and women recoiling from Therrin as she pushes her way through the crowd. It collapses back in around the Wardens as they move, closing in like water filling up the spaces they'd been. Therrin's heart pounds up through her throat, instinct buzzing through her nerves that she's surrounded, that this mass of noise and flesh can turn on her in a second.

Magic surges up in self-defense, singing through her veins. _Steady_, she thinks. If she casts a spell now, this packed in close with sweating, shouting bodies, if anyone is hurt on account of magic no one would stop at just shouting about mages. And even if the people here didn't fling themselves into full-on rebellion, there would be templars here by tomorrow.

In the end, it's Ser Pounce-a-lot that ruins all their caution.

Therrin doesn't know what triggers it, only that a sharper, pained cry comes from behind them and when she looks there's a man holding his bleeding ear. The cat on Anders' shoulder hisses and bristles up in full feline indignation, and then the entire crowd seems to lose its mind. It was claustrophobic enough before but now the packed-in people surge toward the Wardens, a wall of anger and flesh that squeezes out the air and light of the summer afternoon. Someone shoves and falls and Therrin goes down beneath them, the breath driven out of her as she falls on her face at the bottom of a pile of bodies. Dirt grits beneath her fingernails as she tries to claw her way out and can't, as feet kick out and catch her side and mouth and hands in a pummeling rain of blows. Nauseated, she spits gravel and blood just in time for another elbow to jerk its way into her face in the scramble, the weight on top of her wringing the last scraps of air from her lungs, and it all becomes too much for the tenuous hold on her self-defensive magic.

A spell rolls out from the air around her barely called for and untempered by caution, and in a wide swath around her the crowd staggers, tottering backward in stupefaction before they fall unconscious to the dirt. The roar of before dies away in an instant, a sickening absence that only makes the Wardens' labored breathing seem louder.

Ser Pounce-a-lot leaps from Anders' arms and bats at one of the fallen men's eyelashes, tail twitching with interest.

It _is_ Cullen at the top of the steps, she notices, dazed, and even from here his expression is stormy. But without the force of sustained effort behind it the spell doesn't last long. The people of the crowd are already heaving themselves back to their feet and buzzing with anger, the noise of their voices like a kicked-in hive. "Come on," she tells the Wardens, low and urgent as she heads for the stairs, and Sigrun is there immediately but Anders hesitates to collect his cat, and in the time it takes him to tuck Ser Pounce-a-lot back into the crook of his arm there comes a shout from nearby and the metallic ring of a blade being drawn, and then the crowd is thrown back into chaos once again.

The numbers of the crowd swell and then double, and it takes Therrin a few moments in the confusion to recognize the newcomers as Cullen's freshly-trained soldiers, pouring into the courtyard with blades drawn and shouting at the citizens to stand down. By comparison the crowd is largely unarmored and poorly armed, and she can see the temper of the crowd change like a visible tide as anger gives way reluctantly to fear and caution. A gap opens in the crush of peasants and soldiers and Therrin makes a run for it, the other two Wardens right on her heels as they dodge and trip through the crowd until they make it to the steps of Vigil's Keep to where Varel and Cullen are waiting. "Are you all right?" Cullen asks immediately, quiet and worried.

"Fine. What's going on?" Therrin demands, pushing a dusty lock of hair from her face with impatience. "Where did these people come from?"

"The city, most of them," Varel answers, grim and tense and not taking his eyes from the mob as they settle. "Some farmers among the lot, I think, but most of these people are refugees."

Therrin blows out a breath, rattled. "What do they want? Aside from me not to be the arlessa?"

"Food, they say. It's been a poor year for farming, with the darkspawn. Stores all over the arling are running thin."

Varel doesn't seem quite convinced of his own words. "They say?" Therrin presses.

He cuts an uneasy glance her direction. "I suspect there's more to this than it appears, Commander." But before he can say any more, Garevel and a pair of the guards approach the stairs, dragging between them a surly-looking man with a blackening eye and torn tunic.

"Commander." The guards deposit the man at the base of the stairs, groaning. Garevel gives him a look as though he's a rather loathsome new form of darkspawn. "The one who called for your death."

Therrin stares at the man a moment too long, wondering what to do as he glares up at her, and then thankfully Varel hovers over her shoulder, pitching his voice low. "Attempted assassination isn't a charge to be taken lightly, Commander. Nor is inciting a revolt against you."

A revolt. Her stomach plummets at the word, as though Varel saying it makes it somehow more real. Therrin swallows hard, remnants of blood and dust thick in her throat. "What's the usual course of action for this sort of thing?"

"For attempting to kill you? Hanging," Varel says quietly.

She digests that a moment in silence, dissatisfied. Not that death is anything new—it seems to have haunted her every step since the moment Duncan took her from the Tower—but it had almost always been leveled at clearer enemies, at the darkspawn, at Loghain's men, at anyone but the people she had been fighting to protect. The uprising seems so pointless and that more than anything makes it sting. Does the entire arling think she's been fighting darkspawn for her own entertainment and not to try and save their farms? Not to try and defend their cities? "What do you _want?_" she demands of the man.

He scowls at her, wary as though suspecting a trap. "My son is starving," he begins, hedging. "There isn't—"

"Then you should've stayed with him instead of getting yourself killed," Therrin interrupts.

The man doesn't speak, and after a few seconds of uneasy silence Garevel inclines his head. "Shall I arrange to have him hanged, Commander?"

Therrin looks to Varel for the right answer but he only waits on her response. "No," she says at last, ignoring the peasant's surprised expression. "Flog him." A murmur begins again in the crowd, running low. "And flog anyone else who protests," she orders, raising her voice to be heard. "And then get these people out of my courtyard."

Garevel nods briskly and gestures to his men, who seize the peasant by the arms and haul him to his feet.

"Was that the wrong thing to do?" Therrin mutters to Varel, resignation settling like a stone in her chest as she watches the peasant be led away. "Should I have killed him?"

"No," Cullen assures her, too quickly.

Varel only looks grim. "It's difficult to say. It's your judgment to make." He shakes himself, looking weary. "Would that this were all Vigil faced today. A group of the arling's nobles arrived this morning. They're waiting for you inside the main hall." Something goes ever-so-slightly harder in his expression. "Bann Esmerelle is among them."

Therrin laughs, an utterly humorless noise. What was it Oghren had said? Some dwarven adage about pebbles before an avalanche. "Let's not keep them waiting, then," she manages at last, sounding lighter than she feels, gripping her staff in readiness as she leaves the crowd behind for the dim quiet of Vigil's Keep.

-oOo-

It's too much to hope for that this is a friendly visit, Cullen thinks as the Wardens and soldiers file their way into the hall. Last time he'd seen Bann Esmerelle she'd been in court finery. The fact that now she stands armored and armed shouts a very different intention.

"Esmerelle." Therrin's voice is tight and Cullen can't help a questioning glance at the lack of an honorific. Had she discovered something about Bann Esmerelle in Amaranthine?

"Amell." Esmerelle stands silhouetted with the fire pit at her back, her expression thrown into shadow. What light there is glints along the edges of her armor in sharp lines. "I'm here about the good arl." Cullen startles, thinking for a moment she's referring to him, but Esmerelle doesn't so much as look his way. "The good arl _you_ killed."

Varel cuts in, surprised, but Cullen scarcely hears what he says. The dual upwellings of magic at his side burn across his senses, distracting, and from the periphery of his vision he sees a shadow creep closer, the curve of a crossbow with the arrow aimed for Therrin's head. There's a spike of panic as Cullen can't move quickly enough, his entire body too slow though his nerves screech to fling himself into action, but just as fast as the archer had been, Varel moves. There's a metallic sound as the arrow finds him and he falls with a grunt by Cullen's feet, and then the entire thing unravels in an instant.

The hall is miserable for close-quarters fighting. The tip of his greatsword catches more than once on one of the many pillars of the room as a myriad band of shadows with crossbows dart out from cover and disappear, as the assembled nobles go to arms and fling themselves into combat. Two of his soldiers go down before him and he tries not to stumble over their bodies as an arrow whistles close and deflects off his pauldron, far too close for comfort.

"They're Crows!" he hears Nathaniel shout from across the room. A noblewoman whose name he can't remember staggers into Cullen's breastplate as she dies, mouth open in surprise and blood dribbling from her lips. He hesitates to push her away (this wasn't supposed to happen, he's supposed to help lead these people, not kill them), and in that moment of indecision he hears the nearby twang of a bowstring, a searing pain at the side of his throat as the arrow hits him and bites deep, and as his own blood seeps hot under the front of his armor he falls and the world before his eyes disappears into blackness.


	31. Hearts Hung to Harden

Nathaniel suspects he couldn't have imagined a more awkward trip back to Vigil's Keep. Silence seems his only refuge and he flings himself into wordlessness with all enthusiasm—anything to keep from having to speak, anything to evade Cousland's sidelong looks and that catch of a breath that means a question's soon to follow—but there are only so many noises in the brush to investigate to cut short whatever might have come out of Cousland's mouth, only so many times Nathaniel can insist on walking ahead to scout for dangers. The road is mercifully finite, and none too soon the bulk of the fortress rises from the land like an enormous lodestone tugging him home.

It immediately becomes clear that all isn't well at the Vigil. The gate-guards peer at him with pinched faces and open suspicion, and the courtyard and side-yards stand empty of all but armored soldiers. He dares a glance at Cousland, who doesn't bother to hide his troubled expression.

The tang of blood assaults Nathaniel's nose from the moment he pushes open the heavy doors to the great hall. From not far off the Commander wheels to face the open door, hand glowing blue with some malevolent, crackling spell that only abates a little at the sight of him. "Nathaniel." She takes in the sight of Cousland, nonplussed. "Teyrn Cousland. This isn't a good time."

Is that blood smeared against the length of the pillar? Nathaniel stares. "What happened?"

"Esmerelle, come to avenge your father's death." The name may as well be a curse from the way she spits it, the light of the spell dying away as she crosses her arms and stalks closer. Nathaniel's stomach lurches as the idea sinks in.

"No one ever accused Esmerelle of good timing. Teyrn Cousland," Varel sighs from the doorway, one forearm bandaged, the fingers of his opposite hand tentative on the wrappings as though not quite sure what to make of it.

"She had _months_." The Commander seethes, casting dark glances around the hall. Nathaniel watches the few nervous servants cleaning the hall edge away from the Commander as though she might explode. "Why now? Why didn't she try it when we first arrived?" She takes in the empty spaces around Nathaniel and he resists the impulse to edge away from her, as well. "No recruits?"

"There never were any," he answers, frustrated. "Where is Esmerelle now?"

The Commander waves a hand upwards, the gesture tight. "They'll be picking pieces of her off the ceiling for days."

"I…"

Too late, Cousland seems to think better of speaking; he's already drawn the Commander's attention. She looks at him as though she could see through to the back of his skull. "Yes?"

Carefully, Cousland sketches out the events that brought him to Vigil's Keep, the unnerving conversation regarding her removal as arlessa, the attackers on the road, the letter requesting the Commander's presence that hadn't actually come from Highever at all. "I think it was a ruse to lure you out of Vigil's Keep," Nathaniel finishes when Cousland seems to run out of words. "To kill you on the road."

The Commander's eyes narrow but she doesn't answer, and after a moment's prohibitive silence Varel clears his throat and offers a quick, bland report of the events of the morning at Vigil's Keep. Nathaniel frowns at the news of the peasant revolt but he keeps his peace, wincing inwardly at Varel's description of Esmerelle and her cronies lying in wait in the hall. If the Wardens had died outside Esmerelle would've been in perfect position to usurp the arling on the spot. She had likely counted on it. Nathaniel spares a glance upward, wondering if any bits of Esmerelle actually did make it to the ceiling, feeling not even a twinge of sympathy. "Was everyone else killed? Or did you leave witnesses?"

"No." The Commander rouses from her brooding reverie. "We didn't leave anyone alive."

"They got theirs in, I'm afraid," Varel says, leaning a shoulder against the nearest pillar. "We lost Garevel. More are badly wounded. Sigrun—"

"Sigrun's fine," the Commander interrupts. "Had the wind knocked out of her, is all."

Nathaniel surveys the spread of blood on the floor, staining the carpet dark and pooling on the stone, as though the spray and splatter is a map of the battle he could read if he only knew how. "Where's Anders?"

The Commander's hands clench in her sleeves. "Earning his keep."

Nathaniel watches her knuckles go white, and guesses. "Cullen?"

The Commander doesn't answer. After a moment Varel says, "Among the wounded, I'm afraid. Commander, I have to suspect the two attacks have a common origin. It seems likely—as likely as anything, in this—that Esmerelle may have been behind the fraudulent letter. And having realized the failure to dispose of you quietly on the road, grew impatient enough to push the peasants into revolting, in hopes of installing herself at the head of the arling."

Cousland startles. "You think the peasant revolt was manufactured?"

"If those people left their families and decided to come all this way on their own in summer with darkspawn crawling the roads, I'll eat my boot," Varel answers, with only a belated, "ser."

"But what pushed Esmerelle?" The Commander drops one arm to her side, the spell flaring again as she paces a tight line; Nathaniel wonders briefly why she's terrorizing the great hall instead of wherever Cullen is. She turns to Nathaniel and he feels the sharp weight of her attention like the edge of a blade pressed to his head. "She didn't mention anything about putting _you_ in charge."

"Not surprising," Nathaniel answers. "I expect she hoped to take the arling herself."

"But why now?" The Commander's footsteps squelch quietly in the blood-damp carpet. "She hasn't lacked for opportunity to kill me. I've been in Amaranthine a dozen times. She could've had me killed practically on her doorstep any time since I arrived." She gives Cousland a speculative look. "Did this friend of your father's name names?"

"No, he didn't. When I asked he waved it away as unimportant." He shifts, uncomfortable.

The Commander turns away again, dissatisfied, frowning at the patterns of blood on the floor. "It doesn't make sense. This was clumsy. If she really wanted to kill me she could have done better than this."

Varel doesn't smile. "Crow assassins, a peasant revolt, an ambush planned for the road? It doesn't seem she failed for lack of trying."

The Commander isn't listening. "If she'd thought it out she would have brought templars." She shakes her head. "I have to wonder if there was someone else behind it."

A cheerless silence falls between them, broken only by the low noises of the servants as they wipe pooled blood from the floor, erasing the signs of the battle. At last, Varel makes a low, considering noise. "If it's true that someone else may have stood to gain from the attack, perhaps the death of Esmerelle and her associates may prove useful." His expression stays bland, unperturbed by Nathaniel's sharp frown or the Commander's unspoken order to explain himself. "As a message, if nothing else."

The Commander stops in place, thinking. "A message." She mulls it over, eyes narrowing again. Nathaniel has a moment's visceral rejection to the thought of _oppose me and die_, a dim impression that it's something about the office of arl itself that twisted his father and will twist the Commander next.

Finally, she nods. "There are worse messages." When she glances at Nathaniel, her eyes are hard. "See me in private, please." She doesn't indicate if she means now or later before she starts off down the hallway, and Nathaniel follows, uneasy to his bones.

-oOo-

Wynne's eyes are burning.

She knows full well she's been sitting at Cullen's bedside too long. She ought to drag herself away and call in Anders to relieve her for a little while, ought to eat and sleep and go through the motions. Certainly she wouldn't permit any healer in the Circle to pine this way over a patient. It isn't rational, she reminds herself, nor is it helpful in the slightest. Still, she rubs her gritty eyes with the pads of her fingers and doesn't leave.

When the door creaks open Wynne startles, but it's just Therrin slipping in from the hallway, as quiet and dark as any of the shadows that line the wall already. The lamps burn on steadily, the quiet flicking of flame the only sound, and Wynne has a passing moment of gratitude for the lack of a barrage of questions from her, this time. Perhaps Anders throwing her out earlier had left an impression.

Cullen frowns and shifts in his sleep and Wynne drops her fingers to his wrist automatically, checking for the thousandth time in a day. She's read so many heartbeats over the years, of the ill, the dying, the wounded, but the sluggishness of Cullen's pulse makes her chest constrict in a way none of the others had managed.

_Too late, too late_, thuds along her nerves in time with his heart, _too late now. _She swallows back fear, and doesn't leave. "He's stable, for the moment," Wynne says as though updating the furniture. If Therrin intends to stand against the wall and mind her manners, it can't hurt to share what little news there is to tell.

A pang of useless envy doesn't help. _At least she can be here_, Wynne thinks, feeling wholly uncharitable, _it's cheating, to be free of the strictures the rest of us have to live within. If Greagoir hadn't been so closemouthed about his heart—_

_And everything else._

Too late, too late.

If she hadn't been a mage there could have been a hundred nights like this, sitting at her son's bedside watching his chest rise and fall through the illnesses of childhood. She could have held him as an infant, a boy.

If she hadn't been a mage, she wouldn't have had him at all.

Therrin creeps forward from the shadows of the other side of the room, arms crossed carefully over her chest as though she couldn't otherwise stop herself reaching out. "He hasn't woken up."

Not a question. Wynne's eyes sting with fatigue and an older pain, a wall of tears held carefully back, for him, herself, for all of them. "No," she answers. "Not yet."

Wynne looks studiously at the coverlet when Therrin gives up on detachment and sinks to the bedside, taking one of Cullen's limp hands in her own. It shouldn't matter that Therrin is here—it should be a comfort, to know that her son is so loved, it should be heartening—but just now it's nearly the opposite. It's fatigue, Wynne thinks, it's because her resources are worn thin from healing and waiting, but she can't help but wish Therrin would go away and leave her to her solitary maternal vigil.

Wynne reins in her irritation fiercely, trying not to spew venom at those who least deserve it. "I trust your trip to Amaranthine was less hectic than your homecoming," she says, a little forcedly. Anything to have something to discuss besides the man between them.

Therrin's face falls even more, if that's possible. "It was quiet, I guess." She doesn't look away from Cullen. "You'd think it would have to let up sometime, but it keeps not happening."

Wynne frowns. "What now?" The rebellious nobles had all been killed, or so she'd been led to believe. Surely after that matters would be easier.

"There have been more attacks on the Pilgrim's Path. A survivor says it's the Dalish." It's her imagination, Wynne thinks, a trick of the light that makes it look as though Cullen's fingers tighten around Therrin's hand. In any case, Therrin doesn't react.

Dalish. Wynne considers the idea, tired to her bones. "You'll sort it out. You did last time."

"I don't know that I can go." Therrin's glance at Wynne is despairing. Beneath the coverlet Cullen gives a quiet moan of distress, shifting restlessly and pulling his hand from Therrin's without awakening.

Wynne bites the inside of her cheek to keep from parroting back the over-dire warnings Anders had roared, gone lion-like in a heartbeat when Therrin had inadvertently disrupted the complicated spells keeping Cullen alive: _if you want to kill him then please, stay._

There aren't any spells on him now, though. It's more likely an unconscious response to the turbulent state of Therrin's magic than actual pain. Still, Therrin looks stricken. "I should go."

Wynne doesn't quite breathe a sigh of relief. "Upstairs, or to handle the Dalish problem?"

Cullen settles as Therrin steps away. "I don't know," she admits, arms crossing again defensively. "I can't just leave. Not now."

They watch Cullen, who doesn't move. "You'll do as you must, of course," Wynne says at last, as much a pointed suggestion as a reassurance. "You've always looked after your responsibilities, even when it was difficult."

Therrin's glance is sharp. "You think I should go."

_Yes_. Wynne clasps her hands in her lap. "I think you should tend to your people, and leave what healing is needful to those who know how to do it. There's only so much you can do here," she presses on. "More people rely on you than Cullen."

Therrin stands quiet for what seems a long time before coming to a decision. "I'll leave you Anders."

"That isn't necessary." Anders might be a gifted healer but his bedside manner is abysmal. It's nearly as tiring to try and deflect his sometimes caustic sense of humor as it is to tend to Cullen on her own. "He's not in immediate danger and I'm entirely capable of seeing him well. The antidote simply takes time to clear the poison away." Not that losing so much blood had helped in the slightest. He'd been pale enough before. Now his skin is ghostly.

Therrin doesn't leave. "When does your ship sail for Nevarra?"

"Hmm?" Wynne smoothes the coverlet, annoyed. "There'll be another ship." If something happened to him while she was gone it would be more than she could bear. There is so little for her to hold onto as it is.

Therrin makes a noncommittal noise, and when Wynne spares her a glance she doesn't look convinced. But she leaves at last without further comment, and Wynne sighs into the silence she leaves behind, turning the lamps down low, rubbing her eyes again, and settling in for a long, lonely vigil.


	32. The Hunters and the Hunted

Therrin has always hated forests, and the Wending Wood is no different. Here the leaves provide only the illusion of cover, the summertime profusion of foliage dense enough to leave the road feeling claustrophobic. With her nerves stretched thin from the dread of an attack she won't see coming it's hard not to jump at every shadow, to ready a spell at every noise that filters through the underbrush.

Not that being surrounded by trees is all that's wrong.

She can admit that much in the privacy of her own head, as well as how dangerous it feels to be here in body while her thoughts keep drifting back to Cullen, miles away. It's an effort to keep herself in the present, to keep her mind from wandering and churning up one perilous distraction after another.

He had looked so pale.

The dark ridge of an approaching thunderstorm seems to chase the setting sun below the horizon, leaving only a narrow swath of darkening sky by the time they spot the smoke from the burned caravan that blocks the road. All thoughts of breaking to make camp dissolve at once. It's impossible to tell what the caravan may have carried—Therrin sees only charred corpses and no survivors—but the smoke drifts up high into the darkness, the heat of the caravan's embers intense enough to keep them at a distance.

"There's movement in the trees," Nathaniel murmurs close by, barely audible. "Don't look."

Right. She unclenches her aching-tight jaw. "Dalish?"

"I don't know."

Not that Dalish are all that lurks in the forest—she can feel the darkspawn nearby, the sensation of the Taint coiling like dark whispers through her blood, and beyond that the forest is crawling with wolves and bears and any number of creatures she wouldn't want to stumble across in the dark—but Amaranthine can't afford a war with the Dalish, not now with the darkspawn invasion, possibly not ever.

She looks into the ashes of the smoldering caravan, at the tangled silhouette of a charred human body that had never even made it out of the cart. If it really is the Dalish behind these killings, she doesn't know how war can be avoided.

"Go," she says in Nathaniel's direction, voice low. "Find out what's out there."

The trees shudder in the wind as Nathaniel slips off, merging with the darkness. Therrin watches the embers flare with the breeze, knife-edged slivers of red against the black. It couldn't have taken that long to burn, she thinks, but it must have gone up like a torch if the caravaners hadn't been able to get to a safe distance.

In any case, the caravan is still smoldering. Whoever is responsible can't be far.

As the seconds of waiting turn into minutes sounds of alarm filter through the trees. Therrin holds still with nerves strung tight, waiting on an attack, a shout for help, for the forest itself to reach out with thorny fingers and devour them all.

Instead, Nathaniel reappears from nowhere, looking grim. "Scavengers. They've run off the other direction." He smirks, faintly. "Thought they saw a ghost."

Therrin looks down the road at the darkness that seems blacker than ordinary night, trees forbidding and high and the road disappearing between them. "Good. Let's find out who did this," she orders, ignoring her own instinctive recoiling from the woods. Dread can be forced aside for as long as it takes, even the kind that comes from inside, from the guilt-sick fear that she had left Cullen without saying goodbye and that he won't survive until she returns no matter what Wynne says.

_It's the same forest at night as in the daylight_, she reminds herself severely, clamping down on her wayward thoughts, _and whoever did this is a creature like any other creature; it can die and I can kill it and go home._

But it doesn't feel like the same forest they walked through in the daylight. There are growls from the brush, eyes in the darkness and fleet-footed shadowy things that stalk their progress. There are sylvans that shake themselves free of the ground and charge, branches like bones against the dark sky as they rear to strike. Her heart leaps for her mouth as blue-hot fire pours from her hands, but the flames don't seem to deter them. The only thing worse than a sylvan is a burning sylvan groaning its way her direction, toppling at last dangerously close, twigs snagging like little claws at her robe before she snatches it away.

At least she isn't the only one so rattled. Anders seems glued to her shoulder, breath coming short. "Lots of firewood around here," he manages, the quaver in his voice giving away the lie of his bravado.

"We could burn the forest," she answers, only half-joking. Dog licks his nose and presses his head into her hand, the coarse fur tickling her palm. "Save ourselves some time. It's fine, Dog."

He whines, licks his nose again, and stays close.

Sigrun hesitates. "You're not really going to burn the Wood, though. Are you?"

"No, Sigrun."

"Someone's coming," Nathaniel says, voice urgent and fingers resting on his daggers. "Running this way, down the road. Not hiding."

The killer, Therrin thinks at once, but as he races closer she can see his empty hands, his headlong rush more fleeing than charging. "Out of my way!" he calls when he's near enough, unable to pass all of them on the road.

"Did you burn that caravan?" Therrin demands, but he shoves blindly at her as he tries to pass and she staggers backward in the dirt.

By the time she can recover Sigrun's laid him out neatly on his belly, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle behind his back and her boot planted between his shoulder blades. "The Commander asked you a question."

"No!" The man shouts, hoarse and muffled by the dirt. "No, I didn't do it. We… we wanted to see if there was anything left, that's all! We didn't know anything about the elf—"

"What elf?" Therrin asks, patience fraying. "Who are you talking about?"

_Please let it be one  rogue elf instead of a clan vendetta._

A sound like thunder rumbles through the soil, sending the trees shuddering from the roots up. The forest floor heaves like an ocean swell and sends them all sprawling to hands and knees as it passes. The stranger scrambles up before the Wardens can and sprints away into the night like a man with demons at his heels, and just then there isn't time to chase after him and demand answers. The silhouette of a woman appears on the ridge above, backlit faintly until storm clouds eclipse the moon and the night goes even blacker. "So," the woman says, voice sharp and face obscured by darkness. "Too well-armed for scavengers, I see. You must be here for me."

Therrin stands slowly, the ground beneath her feet still alarmingly unstable. "Is your clan attacking the caravans?" she calls up, voice rough and wishing it wasn't night so she could see.

The elf laughs, an incredulous sound. "My _clan?_ What makes you think you know anything about my clan? No, shem. And yes." The sense of foreign magic squirms through the ground, making the hairs on Therrin's arms stand up. "My _clan_ isn't attacking the caravans. Your kind have been hounding me for months! You killed my friends, and the merchants kidnapped my sister!"

_I haven't even _seen_ any Dalish,_ Therrin thinks wildly, and damn it all to the darkest reaches of the Fade, no one had mentioned anything about a kidnapping. Therrin curses the elves and merchants both in the silence of her mind. "We need—"

"The caravans are only the beginning," the elf interrupts. "I want Seranni returned to me, or... or more will die. Deliver this message!" she shouts, voice rising, and then roots erupt from the ground and swallow her whole, and when they retract back into the ground like a cat's claw, the elf is gone.

Therrin tries to track the magic, to feel out which direction the elf may have gone, long moments of effort that reveal absolutely nothing. It's too foreign a sensation and it slips from her grasp and disappears. But the Wardens are waiting, and the night is only getting darker.

"Are we going after her?" Nathaniel asks.

Therrin hooks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, possible choices narrowing down into one grim resolution. "Kidnapping or not, she's been murdering whole caravans of people. If we don't stop her, she's only going to keep on killing."

"So… yes," Anders translates slowly.

Therrin nods, and then realizes it might be too dark to see. "Yes. We go after her." And hope she's alone. She hadn't ever seen just one Dalish at a time before. The idea that more are probably waiting in the cover of the trees is deeply unsettling.

What she wouldn't give for Cullen to be here. He could make short work of the elf mage. He wouldn't have to fight his way through brambles and step lightly around the trunks of trees, dreading the next one that rips itself from the ground and charges. Tracking the elf is a trial, the endless effort and fear and constant worry grinding her patience down to nothing, and when the storm breaks overhead it only gets worse. The elf seems to flit around the forest like a bird, here and then there and behind the next hill in a constantly shifting pattern, leaving ambush after ambush in her wake. The sylvans are terrifying but they die, eventually, and so do the packs of wolves that leap snarling from the blackness to circle them, prowling out of reach of blades and staves until they charge in, jaws snapping closed far too close to the Wardens for comfort.

Even that seems like nothing against the constant torrent of darkspawn that pours out from the trees, wearing them down.

By the time they manage to drive the elf up the highest of the hills Nathaniel says dawn is only a couple hours away. Grimy and bloodied, with robes sodden and torn and muscles trembling with fatigue, Therrin can't muster any satisfaction at the thought of gaining the upper hand. The longer the elf leads them along the shorter her temper becomes, and all she cares about is finishing this and going _home_.

They almost have the elf pinned down at the steep path at the top of the hill when it all comes apart. Sylvans storm heavily from the black stands of trees and surround them as cages of roots erupt from the ground, sending clods of dirt flying in all directions and pelting them with rocks. The root-cages seize hungrily at whatever they can, and Therrin kicks her way free from one cage and narrowly avoids another, skidding to a halt and swinging her staff in a wild arc at the brambles. She hears Anders' agonized scream nearby but she can't see him in the dark and doesn't have time to search because the dark shapes of sylvans surround her, cutting her off from the others, and she lashes out desperately with fire until the last one falls with a thunderous crash to the ground.

When the night finally goes quiet Therrin leans on her staff, rain-flattened hair clinging to her face, and she wonders dazedly how she got so far downhill.

From somewhere above Dog barks twice, an urgent call to come quickly. Anders, she thinks immediately, the shock of memory like ice. She races up the steep traverse of the hillside, holding to exposed roots and toppled saplings to keep from falling.

She spots Nathaniel before anyone else, and then Sigrun and Anders come into view beside him, Anders on the ground making small noises of pain. "Took you long enough," he manages, voice acid but faint. "Stopped for a picnic?"

"What's wrong?" She kneels beside his sprawled leg, disturbed and ignoring his sarcasm.

He hisses sharply when Therrin's knee jars his thigh. "Would it _kill_ you to be careful?"

"Why haven't you healed?" she asks, horrified. "We can't stay here."

"I'm _trying_," he mumbles thickly. Lightning flashes nearby and in the instant's light she can see the pain etched into his face before he leans to the side and retches, a strangled screaming sound in his throat at the agony of moving even that much.

_Try harder_ leaps to the tip of Therrin's tongue and she swallows it, for a moment at a total loss of what to do. He sputters and chokes and drags a sleeve across his mouth a second before he goes boneless and slumps over in a heap, skidding a few inches down the slippery hillside before she and Sigrun seize hold of him and the pain shocks him back to consciousness.

"It was one of the trees," Sigrun informs her grimly, hands fisted in Anders' robe as though she could pin him in place. "It tried to crush him."

"It did a damn bit more than _try_," Anders slurs weakly, breath coming shallow before he slumps again, limp and silent.

The silence as much as anything else sends terror racing along Therrin's nerves, screeching alarm. She musters a spell and her magic resonates through Anders' body, the damage of a dozen or more injuries flaring like bright points in her brain. Clusters of pain around the ribs, fractured, a lower leg shattered, a point above his ear… for a moment the scale of the damage overwhelms her senses, and her ears ring as the spell fades.

"Commander?" Sigrun waits, agitated and expectant.

_It's too much_, Therrin thinks with a hollow sort of panic, _I can't fix all this, not here. _As if in answer, lightning strikes up near the top of the hill and the air seems to crackle, thunder like a wall of sound trying to flatten them before it fades. When it does, the rain lances down even harder than before.

Sigrun's still waiting, worried. "You can heal him, though."

"No she can't," Anders protests, voice faint. "'s only good for the killing bit. If she did't I'd never walk again."

At the elf's next spell the ground pitches beneath them, rolling. Anders gives a high, tortured shout and seizes her arm, digging his fingers in hard.

"You're not in a position to be picky," Therrin says grimly, digging for lyrium and wishing that the rain pelting down from the clouds would clear, just for a minute.

"The elf's still out there," Nathaniel points out, voice neutral.

The statement seems to bring Anders around to clarity, at least a little. He holds very still on the ground, looking up at the sky. "If I were the heroic sort, I'd tell you to go on without me," he manages at last, quietly.

His grip on her arm is weakening. Therrin swallows, throat tight. "But?"

"But don't go on without me."

Therrin looks across the black stretch of the forest, fatigue and the chaotic feeling of darkspawn nearby making it hard to think. "No, of course not."

Anders' reassured expression doesn't last long. Setting his leg is a trial—the break isn't clean, and he screams and swears and kicks out with his good leg and catches her in the mouth before Nathaniel holds him down. After that Anders frets over the meager-feeling healing spells Therrin tries to scramble together until his eyes roll back in his head again and he falls unconscious. She swallows the last of the lyrium midway through and tries to patch together bone fragments with bare flickers of mana, willing his body to heal as though the force of sheer wishing would help.

It seems a long time before her magic runs out entirely, but when she looks up dazedly at the horizon it's as dark as ever. "I can't do any more," she confesses, dizzy and digging her hands into the grass so she doesn't pitch face-first down the hillside. "We've got to get him to shelter."

Maker, if they could just get out of the _rain_. Magic rumbles in the ground up the hill, setting off an avalanche of pebbles, and Nathaniel lets out a frustrated breath. "She knows we're here. If we wait she'll only send more sylvans." He eyes Anders, grimacing. "We should get off the side of this hill, at least."

What a mess, Therrin thinks distantly. "All right," she mutters to Anders as she puts an arm around his side and tries to grapple him upwards. He sputters awake and moans, shaking against her and heavier than he looks. "Lean on your _staff_," she gasps when he tries to lean on her. "I can't carry you." Nathaniel begins to tuck away his bow to help but she shakes her head at him. "No, you keep watch. I don't have any magic left. You'll have to defend us both." She jerks her head at the white summit of the hill, Tevinter-looking stonework seeming to glow in the night. "Let's go."

Where there's stonework there might be shelter, and it isn't as though they have any better prospects. "Come on," she mutters to Anders, who groans in protest. "Not far."

But at the top of the hill, the path splits, and before Therrin can speak Nathaniel holds up a hand, peering into the darkness as they draw a halt. "The elf," he mutters at last, brow creased in concern. "She's in there. I think that's some sort of camp."

"We're in no condition for a fight," Therrin says before she can think, bracing to better handle Anders' weight. But if they try to take shelter the elf will be able to pin them down with wolves and sylvans and they may not get a better chance. "No," she concedes. "You're right."

Sigrun huffs a breath, leaning to rest her hands on her knees. "Can you get her with an arrow from here?" she asks Nathaniel and laughs a little, tiredly. "Something has to go right today, doesn't it?"

"Ye… no," Therrin corrects herself, ignoring looks of surprise from the others. "Take her alive." Just because she hasn't seen any other Dalish doesn't mean they aren't around. If there really has been a kidnapping it will do more toward avoiding war if they can bring the elf in for justice instead of killing her outright.

_Which is far more mercy than she gave the merchants_.

Sigrun looks baffled. "Why?"

"Because…" Therrin eases Anders to the ground to rest against a pillar of stone. "Because. I'll explain…" She gestures vaguely, feeling utterly spent. "Later."

Anders rouses a bit, groggy and weak. "You _said_ you weren't going to leave me here."

"Just for a minute," she swears.

He makes a hopeless noise as his eyes drift shut. When Nathaniel leads the way up the path she follows, feeling mana trickling back sluggish and slow. It is a camp—or it had been, before it had been sacked and burned—but the forlorn shapes of aravels are unmistakable even as badly damaged as they are.

There really had been a clan here, then. The hunched elf doesn't move as they draw closer and spread out to stop her fleeing, though Therrin suspects that to someone who can travel belowground it's got to be a mostly-empty gesture. "I will not go with you to some... shemlen _magistrate_," the elf says without turning to face them, voice low in the dark. "I won't bow to their rules."

_Then you shouldn't have burned the caravans_, Therrin thinks, scraping her brain for the right thing to say, something measured and official. "I don't care," she says instead, giving up, and then everything seems to go into motion. The elf wheels with a handful of lightning and Nathaniel sprints into motion and the world explodes in blue and green. Therrin stares dazedly up at the clouds before she can even register being knocked to the ground, and when she manages to scramble back to her feet what she sees doesn't make any sense. Nathaniel is gone and so are Dog and the elf, and in their place is a coiling mass of roots writhing like a giant ball of snakes. Sounds of battle leak out from between the roots, barely audible over the drumming of the rain on stone. Are they _all_ inside that thing?

"What do we do?" Sigrun shouts over the noise.

"I don't know!" But they have to do something. Therrin channels the little bit of mana she's got into ice, running along the massive ball of roots one tendril at a time, seeking the source. One cable of roots goes white and then another, more as the spell gathers power and spreads but it isn't enough.

The ball seizes, contracting, and then the roots slither back and fall to the ground like snipped-off braids of hair. Nathaniel falls to his hands and knees as it releases him and Dog springs free, shaking himself.

When Therrin looks for the elf she catches sight of a limp figure beneath the fallen roots, utterly still, and her stomach sinks. "Nathaniel."

He puts his fingers to the elf's mouth to check for breath, and then to her neck to check for a pulse, and finally shakes his head. "She's dead." He rubs dirt from one eye, grimacing in frustration. "I don't understand. I didn't strike that hard."

Therrin edges closer but doesn't see a mark on the elf's body, nothing that would indicate a killing blow. "I don't know," she admits, the vague suspicion that this is a trick fading when seconds go by and rain falls into the elf's open eyes. "Maybe she was already hurt." Damn it, her death couldn't be any less convenient. "We need to get out of here. If other Dalish find us in the ruins of a camp, they're going to assume the worst."

Sigrun looks disturbed. "We didn't do anything wrong."

"No one's going to care about what we did," Therrin says tiredly. "Just about what they think we did." Her staff still buzzes restlessly with the remnants of the shock spell, itching along her back. "Nathaniel. What is _that?"_ She points to the other end of the path, toward the white shape of a massive structure set into the rock, only half-visible through the trees.

"A mine, I think," he answers, sounding dubious.

But a mine means a roof, and the idea of getting out of the rain and trees long enough to regroup is powerfully appealing. "Let's make camp. Inside," Therrin orders.

Why does the prospect of rest seem to make weariness seem that much heavier? Anders hasn't gotten any lighter, either, she thinks, though this time Nathaniel takes up a position at Anders' other side, sharing the weight. "Do you think it's wise to shelter in a mine?" he asks, a crease between his eyebrows. "The darkspawn—"

"They're out here, too," she interrupts, struggling to hold Anders upright as gingerly as possible. "I don't want to stay more than a few hours but we all need a rest. If the Dalish think we destroyed that camp and come after us in force we won't have to worry about the darkspawn. Or anything else, ever again." She blinks hard to clear the rain dripping into her eyes. "It's not a good situation, I know," she admits, "but I don't see anything better. Do you?"

He hesitates. "No."

"We'll take precautions," she assures him. "Rest in shifts. We're stopping at the first safe area we can find and the minute we're fit to head back, we will."

"I'm going to order a giant mug of ale when we get there," Anders mumbles dreamily between them, but not so much as a twitch of a smile appears at his mouth so she doesn't know if he's joking or delirious. Once the immediate interior of the mine proves to be a long and narrow staircase, he does stir a bit, face pinched and peevish. "Have I ever told you how much—_ow_—"

"How much you hate stairs?" Therrin finishes tiredly.

The staircase isn't wide enough for the three of them abreast. Therrin hangs back and rests a hand on Dog as Nathaniel and Anders go ahead. "Yes," Anders grunts. "Not just me, then."

"No." Dog pushes in close, tail wagging encouragement, and she scratches his ears and musters a smile. "Good Dog."

He pants happily at that—she can do _something_ right today, at least—and he hovers close when she follows down the stairs. Just a few hours, she thinks as Nathaniel lowers Anders to the cool stone of the floor. Even an hour of sleep will do a world of good and then maybe Anders will have recovered enough to heal himself better and then they can go home.

She sinks to her knees at Anders' side as the others walk the perimeter of the chamber to check for weak spots. It isn't an ideal place to rest, she thinks with a pang, what with the front door leaving them vulnerable on one side and the entirety of the mine on the other. _But it's not for long_, she reminds herself, _and you've been in worse. _

Sigrun ambles back from the other side of the room, apparently satisfied. "I think we're good."

"I agree." Nathaniel looks less hesitant than before, which is a relief. But the edge of his boot touches a wide pattern of circles on the floor and Therrin only catches a faint tinge of magic in the stone before light blazes upward in a greenish burst like a small violent sun. She throws up a hand against the glare, too late, too shocked to react as a hidden glyph flares around them and freezes them all in place.

The feeling of darkspawn, _here_, roars through her blood. From the periphery of her vision she can see the shape of a strange-looking emissary emerging onto the platform above, and when it raises a hand the world seems to spin, coherent thought snatched from her brain and flying apart like scraps of paper in the wind. "Shh…" she hears the darkspawn say, voice oddly soft, and in response her heart pounds in futile panic because there isn't any way to run.

The darkspawn considers them from above like a judge, ruined face expressionless. "Sleep," it commands, and no amount of resistance can prevent it. Sleep hits like a falling mountain and the floor rushes up to meet her, the sound of darkspawn shuffling closer the last thing that registers before the world disappears.


	33. Beneath and Above

When Dog wakes up again he is lying on the floor and everything hurts. His nose hurts from being scraped on the floor, his leg aches from where a tree had fallen on him, even his ears hurt like there had been a too-loud noise he couldn't run away from but he doesn't remember anything.

Dog blinks twice in the dim room, raising his head and only seeing nothing where the people should be. All he sees is the cat, a hunkered ball of bones and anger, and Dog scrambles to his feet and looks around in confusion that grows by the second.

The people are gone, he tells the cat, whining in fear. There was a darkspawn and now the people are gone.

The cat watches him, unimpressed.

Dog whimpers and the noise echoes off the high stone walls. This place smells wrong, like darkspawn and other things that make his hackles rise. He snuffles carefully around the edges of the room, lingering over the soft heaped dirt of a newly-fallen-in tunnel that hadn't been there before.

Underneath the scents of stone and metal and far-off lyrium are the scents of darkspawn and the Wardens, diminishing together into the dirt.

They took the people! he tells the cat, almost howling in anguish. The darkspawn took them!

The cat blinks at him.

Dog sniffs around the room again fiercely, stopping to paw and push at the door. If the door would open he could run for help. There are soldiers at the Vigil and if they all came they would help. The door sticks fast.

He drops to all fours again, growling in worry. There is _nothing_ worse than being stuck on the wrong side of a door with no one coming. Dog barks into the quiet darkness of the mine, pricking up his ears to catch an answer, and when no answer comes but the echo of his own barking he barks again and again, as loud as he can, until he stands very still and waits. He can still smell them here alive beneath the thousand other scents of ruin. The people are here _somewhere_.

But not here.

Dog walks a circle, and then another, and then shoves his nose into the heaped dirt of the fallen-in tunnel, snuffling deeply even though it smells like an old grave. He sneezes the dirt from his nose and growls before throwing his whole body into the effort of digging as hard and fast as he can, dirt and bits of rock flying from beneath his paws as he tunnels into the ground. His human is in there, somewhere. If she is alive in this grave then he will dig her out of it and find her.

He is a good dog, she had said so, and he will never, never give up.

-oOo-

Three days. Three days he had been out, deep asleep or barely conscious, three days that had flown by in useless futility while the world had carried on without him with Therrin gone and the vassals of Amaranthine arriving. Three days with Wynne, hovering, with Cullen's poison-dreams haunted with visions of abominations, of Justice rotting above him in pieces as Cullen had groped for a sword that wasn't there.

And then there had been another day of recovery when he'd barely been able to get upright, hidden from the sight of any of the arriving vassals.

_I heard it rumored you'd been killed, ser_, Varel had said, helping him along the hallway. _I must say you look well enough, for a dead man._

It had been only bleakly funny. If there are more, still, more of the vassals who hadn't joined Esmerelle but had been allied with her cause and might think with Therrin gone and Cullen dead that the time for a coup is at hand, he might well end up dead after all.

Cullen stands at the battlements and watches the Keep below, eyes on the empty road. Four days should have been enough for the Wardens to get to the forest and back, if everything had gone well. His heart had sunk when he heard she'd gone off without him and he can't help but feel at loose ends without her now, a fidgety anxiousness that leaves him distracted and tense.

Wynne isn't helping. She means well—he is almost certain she does—but Justice ghosts behind her at every turn, a clinging sort of expectancy that grates on Cullen's nerves. It's worse when Justice approaches him directly, to ask after the possibility of fighting darkspawn.

_I must carry out justice for Kristoff's murder. How shall I pursue my cause when I am not permitted to accompany the Grey Wardens?_

Cullen hadn't had an answer. Up here the wind snaps at the banner and whistles across the stone, an oddly cheerful sound. Cullen leans his hands on the half-wall railing and watches the empty path, willing the Wardens to appear, safe and whole and coming home.

They don't.

At the creak of the door behind him, Cullen turns, but it's only Varel, empty-handed and curious. "No sign of her?"

Cullen pushes off the stone, straightening. "No. No sign." He bites the inside of his mouth, discontent. "At what point do we send out a search party?"

"Not just yet, I think." Varel surveys the wide sweep of Vigil's nook against the hills, his arms crossing. "It wouldn't just be a search party, understand. It would be an admission that we thought our arlessa had come to some harm, or worse. And with the lords and ladies coming in for the wedding—"

Cullen's gut shouldn't twist at the word but it does, a hopeless feeling. "The king was late for his own wedding," he remembers. "Watch, Therrin will be late for hers."

"Could be," Varel says, nodding agreeably. "I wouldn't assume the worst just yet, ser."

"No." Cullen knows that, and still. He has the sense sometimes that he's the only person in the world who knows Therrin isn't invincible, and it doesn't help. "But…"

"Tomorrow, if you like, we can send some men to the Wending Wood. Quietly." He gives Cullen a sidelong glance, measuring. "May I be frank with you?"

"_Please_," Cullen says, too quickly.

Varel snorts a quiet laugh. "Watching the road may be a decent enough way to pass the hours but it's not going to get her home a moment sooner, ser. You could do the both of you a lot of good by heading down there and listening to the vassals as they come in. I suspect they're arriving early for more than the wedding. The darkspawn," he clarifies at Cullen's confused look. "Vigil's Keep is the safest place in Amaranthine, at the moment. They're hiding, as much as they're coming to pay respects."

Cullen chews it over, anxious. "I don't know what to say to anyone." But he's right, Cullen can feel it. Occupation is a better way to pass the time than standing on the battlements waiting.

"I wouldn't imagine you'd have to say much at all," Varel says, the wind ruffling his hair. "Let them do the talking. And," he says, voice dropping with significance, "if you _do_ hear any rumor of loose ends to Esmerelle's plot…"

Cullen nods. "Of course."

"It wasn't an order, mind."

"No." Cullen frowns at the empty road again, thinking. "I know. You're right." He lets out a breath, not quite satisfied. "You'll have someone tell me? When she gets back."

_When, not if. _He squashes the thought severely.

Varel only nods. "You'll be the first to know."

There's no more reason to linger, save his own reluctance. Cullen heads through the doorway, away from the light and the wind and down into the guarded heart of the Keep, tucking his worry away like a private memento for safekeeping.

-oOo-

When Therrin had first come to the Tower there'd been a game she'd drifted into, a silly thing where one child at a time had been blindfolded and spun around and then released to chase the others. When she'd been caught and it was her turn she went on readily enough, not particularly intimidated by the sudden darkness of the blindfold, or of the feel of hands on her shoulders spinning her around over and over. But by the time she was released the game had lost its fun entirely. With breakfast sitting uneasily in her belly and her first tiny taste of lyrium blazing through her head, the disorientation had only felt dire.

When Therrin wakes up in darkspawn cell, it feels just the same.

The stone beneath her fingertips is cold and sticky, and when she cracks open her eyes and raises her head a wide swath of her hair stays glued to the floor with dried blood until she tugs it away. The undyed sleeve of her plain dress catches her eye and she stares at it, uncomprehending. She had been wearing robes. She only ever wears robes anymore. Her arm throbs and she drags up the sleeve, blinking at the sight of a cut across the vein at her elbow.

Had she been bled? She doesn't remember being bled.

Across the floor Nathaniel scowls in his sleep, his hands straying down to where his daggers would've been if he'd had them but he doesn't, and frustration tears in a clear line through her thoughts: _but he's _always_ had his daggers, where are—_

The spell sedating her presses in on her brain like a wall of water, dragging her downward into blackness.

It seems there are a hundred small moments of wakefulness that don't quite manage to last, flickers of consciousness wrested from the dark tumble of nightmares: of a looming, ruined face and too-soft voice, long reaching fingers and growls from the shadows that make her shudder in her dreams. She wakes once and looks around the cell for Dog but he isn't there, and she wakes again and Anders is hardly breathing, sprawled unmoving with dark hollows around his closed eyes. He's dying, she thinks, and tries to reach out, but her eyelids are leaden and they fall closed despite her struggles to stay awake.

Hunger and thirst drive her awake a final time, pushing up shakily from the stone but not daring to stand yet. At least she _can_ push up this time, she thinks, though she doesn't see water.

A ghoul watches her from the other side of the bars.

The jolt of shock helps dispel the magic pressing in at her brain, just a little, enough so that she can trip upwards to her feet and cling to the bars. "Who are you?" Therrin rasps. The sensation of so many darkspawn nearby thunders through her skull and down her bones, a malevolent hum that helps clear away the cobwebs of the unnatural sleep.

The ghoul hesitates, soft-eyed and looking pained. "I'm Seranni. Are you all right?" _All right__?_ Therrin thinks, outraged, _we're in a darkspawn __cell_. "You have to understand," Seranni goes on before Therrin can answer, "he's not trying to hurt you."

"I don't _have_ to understand anything," Anders protests faintly without opening his eyes. "We're prisoners. I understand _that_."

"But I'm here to help you," Seranni assures them, inexplicably earnest. "I can unlock the door. Once I do you have to leave, as quickly as you can."

_Now why would you do that?_ Therrin thinks, distrust clamoring between her ears. When she glances at Nathaniel in the shadows he looks as unconvinced as she feels.

Seranni's gaze drops, as though she can sense the gist of the Wardens' doubt. "I have to get you out before something bad happens. I don't want anyone else to be hurt."

"Something bad like _what_?" Therrin demands. As if being taken captive by darkspawn wasn't bad enough? Magic wells up inside her in self-defense. _I could shapeshift if I had to, I could be on the other side of the bars before she could react, and then if she _does_ have a key—_

Seranni only shudders, a quick shake of her head as though denying her own thoughts. "The darkspawn have your things, but you can get them back. They're going to come check on you again. You have to hurry." She produces a key that scrapes into the lock of their cell, turning with a metallic screech of protest.

"What's going on?" Sigrun demands as the lock gives way. "Why would you help us?" She darts a look at Therrin that reads _this feels like a trap_, and Therrin can only agree.

But trapped out there sounds more promising than trapped in here. "What else do you know?" Therrin asks, seizing hold of Seranni's arm.

Seranni tries to tug away and can't, alarm distorting her expression. "I don't know anything, I promise. But take the key. It opens a chest in the emissary's room. You might…" She stops, listening, and then struggles out of Therrin's grasp in a fright. "They're coming. You have to go, please!"

"Wait!" But she darts away in a panic and disappears just as a handful of darkspawn charge through a door at the other side of the room.

Therrin reaches for her staff and remembers a second too late that it isn't there. Sigrun doesn't hesitate. She charges out toward the darkspawn, hands balled to fists, leaping on the first one she comes to and driving it to the ground with a flurry of punches.

Therrin rushes to follow, counting up the darkspawn in her head and trying to think. Battle magic feels scattered and unnatural without the focus of a staff or the fortification of robes but it works, if just from the sheer blunt force of the summoned cold. When the last of the darkspawn falls to a hammering punch Sigrun kicks bits of ice from her feet and sucks her bloody knuckles. "That wasn't so bad."

"No," Nathaniel agrees, and in the light of the stairwell Therrin can see that the darkness across his face isn't a shadow, but stubble growing in. "It was too easy. There must be a thousand darkspawn in the mine; why send five to attack us?" He frowns at Therrin's look. "What?"

She points to his face and before she can speak he raises a hand to his jaw, frown deepening in surprise before he scratches the new dark hair on his chin. "Ah."

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but her throat goes even dryer. "How long have we been here, do you think?"

Nathaniel rubs his fingertips across his jaw, thinking, and Sigrun says, "Longer than overnight. It doesn't grow that fast."

"Days, I think," Nathaniel adds. "Maybe a week." He cranes his neck to see up into the relative brightness of the room above. "Is this the emissary's room, then?"

"I think it might be," Therrin says. _She wanted us to go to the emissary's room. Have they led us there with an ambush?_ "I'll go up first," she orders. "Have a look. Go get Anders."

The staircase feels like any staircase at the Tower, the sprawling chamber at the top so like and so unlike the Circle all at once that it jars some vulnerable place in her mind. The Tower didn't have skeletons hanging from the ceiling in cages or bodies stretched out dead on racks; it didn't have rusted spikes protruding from the walls and it didn't smell of darkspawn corruption, so thick that it seems to cling to her skin as she moves.

But the long tables covered in notes and potions look the same, the high stuffed bookcases look the same.

One of the caged skeletons has two skulls sprouting from one spine. Therrin shudders and turns away. _Notes_, she thinks, listening with half an ear as Nathaniel and Sigrun bring Anders up the staircase. If there are notes, then perhaps she can figure out what the emissary is up to.

"Ow," Anders groans as Nathaniel settles him down by the wall. "My… _ow_."

Therrin skims loose papers, looking for answers, nerves straining with the need to hurry and get answers and go. _Old Gods_, she reads, _songs_ and _disciples_, and _the blood is the key, the blood is always the key_.

And: _Perhaps I should have killed it while it slept._

A seizing fear cuts through the haste in her mind, only a moment before Anders shouts and swears and throws a book across the room and Therrin startles at the motion. "What?" she demands, heart pounding.

He jabs an accusing finger at the book, lying open and creased across the floor. Not caked in dust like so many of the other books, no sign that it had lain a long time unread. "Look. _Look_ at what they've been reading!"

Therrin gathers up the book, smoothing a page. "What page?"

"The whole book," Anders says, face burning with rage. "All of it."

Therrin turns it over to look at the spine. "Phylacteries: a History Written—"

"In _Blood_," he finishes, yanking up his sleeve to show the cut across the vein at his elbow.

_The blood is the key, the blood is always the key._

"You have one too, don't you?" Anders swallows. "We all do."

Nathaniel nods, and then Sigrun, and the corruption in the air seems to go even thicker, the book in her hands poisonous. _Phylacteries_, she thinks with rising horror, and looks across the long stretch of the darkspawn's tables at the hundreds of vials that litter the surface.


	34. In Root and Blood

Not all of the bottles are phylacteries.

This in itself is a problem. Anders stares down the long lines of vials, scattered and tipped-over bottles only barely stoppered up, dozens of them swept over loose pages of notes and heaps of human bones and even a birdcage.

And not a one of them labeled.

They could be full of anything. If they were all phylacteries he could smash them, throw them by the dozen over the edge of that great drop on the other side of the room to shatter on the stone of the poisoned chamber below. But there's no telling what's inside them all. Given the scope and disorganization of the emissary's chamber? They could be volatile, explosive even; he could drop a single one of them and kill them all in a fireball.

There isn't any way to determine which are phylacteries except to open every single one on its own, and they don't have time.

It doesn't stop them from trying. Anders sits at the approximate middle of the tables, elbow-to-elbow with Therrin as Sigrun and Nathaniel round up stray bottles, holding them up to the light to look for hints of red in their contents. It becomes a cycle: take up a bottle and uncork, discern the contents, re-cork, discard carefully, take up a bottle. His hands move automatically even as his eyes dart down the length of the table to the hundreds of bottles standing by, any one of which might be yet another leash, another tie to pin him down with his own blood.

And here he'd thought one phylactery was bad enough.

Beside him, Therrin sneezes and makes a face. "You didn't _smell_ it," Anders demands, horrified.

She coughs and waves the volatile fumes away, re-corking the plain little vial. "No, of course not."

Anders takes up another bottle and uncorks it in one motion. "Good."

At least he can do _this_. His hands are fine, his arms… acceptably healed. But a myriad of small signals from the rest of him tell a very different tale, protesting with each breath and step. He can think of worse fates than being smashed back together crooked by magic—he had lived, after all, and that was something—but with a dozen tenacious pains to remind him of the damage, it's hard to be anything but snappish and tense.

Proper healing will have to be a problem for another time. For now… "Maker's _breath_, what I wouldn't give to do away with all phylacteries ever." If the Chantry didn't use them, they wouldn't leave nasty little books lying around ready to fall into the wrong hands, would they? And then he wouldn't be here with the Wardens, he'd be… well… halfway to the surface by now, at least.

Therrin peers into another bottle as she uncorks it. "I know what you mean."

"Oh, is _that_ right?" He glares at her sidelong, but she isn't looking. "Since when?"

"Since now." She recorks the bottle and sets it carefully in the basket behind them, taking up another one without looking.

_Convenient, that_. "Are you telling me," Anders presses, irritated, "that if your phylactery—your real one, the one the Chantry's got—if it were here right now you'd destroy it?"

She hesitates. "Yes."

"Right." Something twists in Anders' stomach, bitter and unsatisfied. "What's one more rule that only applies to you when you feel like it?" He discards the bottle. "That'd go over well, wouldn't it? Trot back to your templar intended, 'Hello, darling, I've been out fighting darkspawn today, and thought I'd destroy my phylactery while I was out!'"

She doesn't answer, hands working on the bottles automatically.

"Unless you don't intend to _tell_ him of your newfound change of heart," Anders says, and at the merest hint of guilt creeping into her expression, "Oh, so that's how it is. Well. No better foundation for a relationship than secrets and lies and a Chantry hanging over your head, you know."

She glares. "I'd tell him."

"You couldn't even tell him about Wynne and her little spirit friend," Anders argues, a surge of grim triumph at the shock that flits across her face. "But what's one more friendly abomination hanging around, eh?"

Therrin's voice drops. "She told you?"

"Didn't have to. _Some_ of us are sensitive enough to the arcane that we don't need everything spelled out for us."

Her expression darkens. "And the rest of us can defend ourselves from trees."

Nice. "The point is," he presses, peevish and unable to stop, "that sure, things look all right. For now. You're safe enough you can be a comfortable hypocrite. But what do you think happens when the pair of you start having little self-righteous magi babies, hmm? You think the Chantry's going to sit on their hands while you flaunt free mages under their noses?"

"They might not be mages—"

"And that's so much better," Anders interrupts, impotent fury growing with no outlet as he takes up another bottle. "That you, a mage, have to hope and pray your children aren't mages too. Ignoring for a moment that it was a mage that stopped the Blight, and it's us mages now fighting against the darkspawn when I haven't seen any templar volunteers—"

"You didn't volunteer," she interrupts, seizing a new bottle. "I conscripted you."

"Well—"

"And the Chantry hasn't come for Stephen."

"That's because you haven't named Stephen your heir," Anders retorts, frazzled. "He's been in Amaranthine what, twice? And never in robes until we were back on the road, you saw to that. You're hiding him."

She scowls at the bottle. "I don't have to hide him."

"But you are. He's just another boy to the Chantry now. But you pick out an heir and they're going to be on you in moments, believe me. And if word gets out that he's a mage—"

"I'm a Grey Warden," she snaps back. "They can't—"

"_You're_ a Grey Warden," he interrupts, every word sharp. "_You_ are. Not Stephen. Not every other mage in Ferelden. You and I might have immunity, but that's as far as that leash runs. If you think for a moment that you're safe inside your cozy little bubble, you're in for a world of disappointment. And in the meantime, there are mages out there just like you and me being hunted down and killed, and none of it matters at all because you got what you wanted. For now." He stops, trying not to wince at the ache in his ribs when he takes a deep breath.

"What do you expect me to do?" she demands, rounding on him with unexpected severity. "I've done everything I can. I've done _everything_ I was asked. This, here, the darkspawn, this is my fight."

Anders stops, taken aback. "But when it's over—"

"It's never going to be over." She draws her anger up short. "Maybe for you. Not for me. There's always going to be another Blight on the horizon and the Wardens have to be ready. I can't fight my war and yours too."

Anders rolls it over in his mind, discontent lingering like electricity in the air. "Funny. I don't recall asking you to do any such thing." But she flashes him a dangerous look and he puts up his hands, appeasing. There isn't any point in arguing. He might as well try and convince her dog.

Come to think, he might have better luck with the dog, at that.

"I need to think," she declares, and when she rests her forehead in her hands he goes right on sifting through the bottles. Never mind that they're twice as slow with only him doing all the work. Never mind that every second that ticks by is one more second trapped underground with an army of darkspawn between them and the surface. _It's about time you had a good think_, Anders grumbles in the privacy of his own mind.

"We're wasting time," Therrin says at last, voice hoarse. "We need to go."

"We… _what?_" Anders gestures to the table, disbelieving. "You can't honestly suggest that leaving the darkspawn our phylacteries is anything approaching a good idea."

"They led us here." She reaches for a staff that isn't there and stands a bit awkwardly without it. "The ghoul wanted us to come up here, the darkspawn that attacked us drew us here. There's nothing up here we weren't meant to see."

She scans the room again as Anders' heart sinks, looking across the long lines of unopened bottles, rows and rows of might-be-phylacteries… "You can't ask me to just leave—"

"Yes," she interrupts. "I can." _No_, he thinks, rebellion coming automatic. _I won't_. But she looks at the bottles again, eyes going narrow. "I don't doubt they've got our blood but I don't think it's here. That emissary isn't stupid. It's not going to lure us right to it. Better to distract us with a thousand wrong bottles and keep the right ones out of reach."

The strained-to-snapping thread of tension in his chest eases in a traitorous lurch of something almost like relief. "That's _assuming_ that thing thinks like a human being."

She gestures at Nathaniel, who comes to take Anders' arm and help him upward. "If I can help it, it won't matter." She jerks a nod at the ceiling, high overhead. "How much do you think it would take, to bring the whole mine down on itself?"

Sigrun's eyes go wide. "Commander?"

"You're _joking_," Anders says, not at all sure that she is.

Therrin shrugs. "After we're aboveground, of course. I wouldn't expect anything as fragile as a glass bottle to survive, at least."

In a bizarre sort of fascination the images play out in his head, of the tunnels collapsing, the roof above hurtling down to where they're standing now, every bottle at once smashing with a few thousand tons of rock coming down on top of it for good measure. "You really think you could?" he demands, feeling a bit woozy at the thought.

"Right now? Yes."

Sigrun follows when Therrin goes, with Nathaniel helping hold him up last as Anders scrambles for footing and for thought, all at once. "She's crazy," he mutters to Nathaniel, watching the backs of the women ahead. "We're all going to die."

Nathaniel only snorts. "Maybe. You first."

-oOo-

Listening to the vassals isn't so difficult as Cullen had feared. Like Varel said, they seem far more interested in talking than in listening. More than that, the presence of Teyrn Cousland seems to command their attention more than Cullen himself.

He can't help but feel now and again that he's a curiosity to be peered at, a diversion and not a real arl-in-the-making.

For Teyrn Cousland, it seems as natural as breathing. He can carry on a conversation without scrambling to remember which name goes with the right face, or the tax rate for wool going out to port, or any number of the minutiae Cullen had crammed his own head with.

Facts and bits of facts seem to slosh around in his skull like an informative soup. He's nearly surprised it hasn't started to leak out his ears. It's almost a relief to have Wynne around, then. Almost.

"An interesting group, aren't they?" Varel says at his shoulder. He inclines his head at the lords and ladies surrounding the teyrn. "Come to see you married, but can't pry themselves from the teyrn's side."

"Yes," Cullen hedges, though interesting isn't the word he'd have chosen.

But Varel only makes an amused face. "I imagine that between yourself and the Teyrn and the First Enchanter, this is the most excitement Amaranthine may have seen in some time."

"Aside from the darkspawn?"

Varel raises an eyebrow. "I wouldn't consider that excitement, myself."

"No," Cullen concedes, unable to shake the sensation of being out of his depth. But before he can say more the door opens again and his attention is snagged by the faint tug of magic, the sense of a nearby enchantment bringing his head around at the old mage and her templar guard.

"And who is this?" Varel asks under his breath. "Anyone you know?"

"No. I don't believe so," Cullen hedges.

"Oh," Wynne says behind his shoulder. "Oh dear."

The old mage marches up to Wynne as though going to war. "And just where have you been?" she demands of Wynne, face puckered in a hard scowl. "I abandon an entire year's research on your word that we _absolutely must_ go to Nevarra, and then you can't be bothered to show up? And leave me at loose ends with a whole ship waiting on you without so much as a by-your-leave?"

"Ines," Wynne manages, looking as though she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. "I…"

"What, forgot? About me? The ship? The Colleges of Magi convening?"

The entire assembly has taken notice of the exchange, necks craning from every corner of the room. Ines' templar guard edges closer to Cullen, his hands full of a crate that leaks a fine sifting of dirt to the ground.

"There were extenuating circumstances," Wynne says at last. "My hosts suffered an attack. I couldn't leave—"

"And so you've been working day and night to save them," Ines cuts in, arms crossing and looking utterly unconvinced. "And not, say, mingling at some high-society party drinking wine."

For a moment Cullen thinks Wynne is going to try and hide her wineglass behind her back, but she doesn't. "I apologize for forgetting our meeting, Ines. But—"

Ines seems determined not to let Wynne finish a sentence. "But what? Your party is more important than the future of the Circle? More important than letting me know you wouldn't be coming? You're the First Enchanter, woman! What in all the Fade could be more important than doing your job?"

Wynne looks to Cullen and he fears for a moment that she's going to confess it, here in front of every one of the arling's vassals, that she'll say _because my son almost died, and I had to be here_.

Ines' templar guard edges closer to Cullen. "Shouldn't we do something, ser?"

Cullen blinks. "What?" Was it his imagination, or had the voice from underneath that helm been painfully young?

"The mages," the templar says, a wince in his voice. "They're agitated."

"Don't be a ninny," Ines snaps at him. "And stop _squirming_. That's good topsoil you're wasting."

"Yes, Enchanter," the templar says obediently, but he casts a glance at Cullen that can't be anything but despairing.

Wynne recovers, handing off her wineglass to a passing maid and clasping her hands before her. "I suppose it hardly matters, does it? Nevarra won't wait. I can arrange passage—"

"I already have," Ines interrupts, still looking distrustful. "In three days, for the both of us. And so help me if you can't be arsed to show—"

"I'll be there," Wynne soothes. "In the meantime, if you'd like a place to put your things…"

Varel clears his throat, stepping in. "This way, please." He casts an uncertain glance at Cullen behind her back. "I don't believe I caught your name, madam—"

"Ines—"

"Enchanter Ines," Wynne corrects, and earns herself a volcanic glare.

"_Ines_ Arancia." She sniffs.

"I see," Varel says, glancing at the templar's crate uneasily. "If you've any magical equipment requiring safe storage, the arlessa has a room—"

"It's only dirt," Wynne says, earning herself another glare. "Ines is something of a gard—"

"Botanist," Ines interrupts stoutly. "And author. Perhaps you've heard of me." The name nudges at some memory of Cullen's, mostly buried, but before he can ask she says, "I'd heard a mage was in charge at Amaranthine. I'd have expected better organization, frankly."

Wynne doesn't quite sigh. "It's Therrin."

"What, her?" Ines chews it over and Cullen tries to organize his scattered thoughts: the little start of interest at the word _botanist_, the unwelcome intrusion of his memories of standing guard over herbalism classes at the Tower, his own disapproving look at Wynne that goes ignored. "Could be worse," Ines admits. "I suppose."

Her templar guard slumps along behind her, his full suit of armor a walking heap of dejection as topsoil filters gently from the bottom of the crate.

"Now then," Ines says when Varel shows her into a room. "This is better than camping, isn't it, boy?"

"Yes, Enchanter," the templar agrees.

"No need for you to spend half the day collecting firewood _now_, is there, boy?" She squints in disapproval as Wynne edges out and flees.

"No, Enchanter."

"Good." She turns, seeming only just now to notice Cullen's lingering presence. "Now what do you want?"

"Nothing," Cullen says quickly, some poorly-buried instinct for obedience making him nearly as jumpy as Ines' templar guard. But she only looks cross at his answer, and so he scrambles for something better. "En—Ines," Cullen corrects himself. "You said you're a botanist?"

She straightens, as though an invisible hand had pulled her up by strings. "I am. And author. You've read my book?"

"I think I have," Cullen admits, relieved when she looks pleased. "I don't mean to impose. But I've got this plant." He takes a gulp of air and launches into an explanation, of what he'd tried (everything) and what hadn't worked (all of it), and he fears that he's rambling, that this admission of failure will get him a stern look and a snapped-out _how could you, you idiot, you give me that plant this instant._

Instead, she nods grimly, like a captain of the guard investigating a terrible crime. "Right. I'd best have a look at it. Thank the Maker you asked, boy," she says with a sigh as they head for the hall. "I was beginning to fear there wasn't a one of you in this place with your heads screwed on right."

-oOo-

Beneath the ground it is very dark. There are pools of light, sometimes, torches that Dog never sees anyone carry and fires that burn on and on and on. But mostly there are long stretches without any light at all. Dog winds his way through the dark cold paths that darkspawn had walked before him and men had walked before them, following his nose to track the fading scent.

It has been a long time in the mine, days long, maybe. There is nothing to eat down here and his belly growls and grumbles, and there is no human to give him fresh water so he hunts after the trickles that come through the stone, sniffing out the places where dribbles pool into little mouthfuls of water. Dog laps them up one by one, drinking until his tongue is raw from pressing against the stone for more.

Sometimes the cat gets to the water first and crouches over it like a small angry bear, hissing when Dog gets too close.

Sometimes when Dog can't go on another step he curls on the stone to sleep and the cat curls against him for warmth, but when they wake up the cat is as unfriendly as ever. Dog does not know what to make of it except that cats do not make sense.

But he comes to proper tunnels, smooth finished stone of human make beneath his paws, and here the darkspawn are thicker. They are not expecting anything like Dog (or like the cat, who is not much of a fighter, but a darkspawn with an angry cat on its head is a distracted darkspawn, and Dog can work with that) so it is not so hard to fight one or even two at a time.

The cat sniffs at the fallen body of a hurlock, tail twitching at the scent of meat. Do not, Dog growls. It is bad. The cat sneezes in disdain and saunters away.

But the darkspawn seem distracted by more than cats—they hardly notice Dog, and he doesn't know why—and Dog clears a path through the tunnels, tracing the human-scent down, down, down.

There is a terrible minute where he thinks he has found the people—their scents are here, magic and lyrium and something else that had imprinted in him forever ago—but it is only a couple of ghoul-creatures dressed in the mages' robes, looking at Dog with white rotted eyes before they attack.

When Dog hesitates (his nose says no but his eyes say maybe, and what if something had happened and it _is_ her?) the not-Therrin creature lashes out and magic burns a hot line down his flank, singed fur stinking in the air along with the darkspawn bodies, and Dog doesn't hesitate anymore. The ghouls are not strong and Dog is very heavy, and so it's easy to lunge and knock them to the ground, planting his paws on their fallen bodies and shredding and tearing until they stop moving.

When it's over the darkspawn ooze coats his tongue and his empty belly heaves at the taste. There is more water around here somewhere, he can smell the cool wet-scent of it on the stone nearby. Maybe he can get to it before the cat does.

But the cat is sitting by the body of the not-Anders, very still.

It isn't your human, Dog says.

The cat ignores him.

We have to go find the people, Dog says, only just remembering not to snuffle at the cat because of claws.

The cat's ear flicks once, twice, and then he ambles to his feet and follows close.

All sorts of sounds filter through the rocks as they walk—clicking sounds and shuffling footsteps, far-off groans and the low creak of boulders settling—but the noises are not so overwhelming that he doesn't know the voice of his human when he hears it. And it is just good luck that he hesitates again (because his ears say _yes! yes! _but his nose isn't sure yet) because Sigrun does something and a big statue crumbles and crushes the darkspawn beneath it like eggs, and if Dog had run he'd have been hit by the falling rocks.

"Dog!"

And his ears say _yes_ and his nose says _yes_ and Dog barks and scrambles into a run and bowls Therrin right over. He leaps away whining in an instant (he had forgot not to jump on his person like an untrained puppy), but she must have expected it because she had rolled and isn't hurt and is only smiling very wide.

But she is distracted and doesn't see the not-quite-dead hurlock behind her, and so Dog has to jump over her to bring it down. It hits at him and roars but Dog is not afraid of darkspawn-noises, and he makes very sure that it is all the way dead before he lets up.

"Good Dog," Therrin says, still smiling, and after that it's just as well that she is already down because he cannot wriggle in close enough or get his ears scratched enough, and she laughs and hugs him very tight and he licks the hot tears from her face. "You should have run, Dog. I was hoping you'd gotten free."

No, Dog says, and plants himself at her hip when she gets back up.

His ears twitch at the creaky rumble of the cat's purr, and when he looks, Anders is sitting on the ground looking very not-well, his eyes closed as the cat butts the top of his head into Anders' neck. "Pounce."

Therrin looks too, and gives Dog another scratch behind the ears. "Good Dog," she says again, softer. "Come on. Let's get out of here."


	35. The Shadowed Path

Fergus Cousland is just as genial away from the crowd of vassals, which takes Cullen by surprise. He doesn't know precisely what he'd been expecting when the teyrn had suggested a more private conversation but it had seemed only right to accept. As the evening wears on away from the busyness of the other vassals Cullen watches him, weighing his words as they talk and waiting for Fergus to get down to business.

He'll have to swear fealty, he thinks, trying to get a measure of the man. Fergus seems… genuine. Open. Cullen had watched the sidelong glances when the vassals of Amaranthine had come to swear fealty to Therrin, the false smiles here and there among the crowd. Fergus Cousland doesn't seem to have any of the same kind of artifice in his face.

Nor does he seem to be in any hurry at all to discuss politics. Cullen doesn't know what to make of it. Either he's better at hiding his intentions and feelings than every other politician Cullen knows, or he really is that open.

Maybe he doesn't have anything to hide.

But his smile when Stephen peeks in seems genuine. Stephen creeps across the floor with exaggerated stealth, sitting beside Cullen's chair and winding his arms around his knees. "And what do you think of all these people being here?" Fergus asks Stephen, looking amused. "Are you ready for all of them to go home yet?"

"No." Stephen rests his chin on one knee. "I like them. They talk a lot."

"That they do."

"And some of them have swords," Stephen continues, a little longing.

"So do you. A practice sword," Cullen reminds him.

Fergus laughs softly. "You like swords, I take it?"

"Yes!"

But Stephen doesn't get the chance to expound upon his favorite subject. There's a brief knock at the door before Varel appears from the hallway, glancing at the teyrn and Stephen before his gaze falls on Cullen. "Ser…"

Something in Varel's expression is ever-so-slightly foreboding, and a cold dread lodges in Cullen's chest. "Is there news?"

Varel only looks to Stephen again and gives an infinitesimal shake of his head, a warning. Not good news, then. "It's time you were in bed," Cullen manages, his throat constricting around every word as he taps Stephen's shoulder. "Go on."

"Will you come read to me?"

"I… yes. I'll be up later. Go on." Varel doesn't speak right away when Stephen runs off and Cullen waits, listening to the smack of bare boy-feet in the hallway as they grow fainter and fainter. "Has the search party come back?" Cullen asks when the sound dies away altogether.

"Not quite." Varel closes the door behind himself. "One of them returned with a caravan they found coming the other direction, up from Denerim. They claim not to have seen the Wardens but they did come across some sort of battleground in the Wending Wood. They're reporting a significant number of bodies. Many of them darkspawn." Varel hesitates, and the growing dread sharpens itself on Cullen's insides. "No sign of the Commander, ser, or the rest of the Wardens. But they've given word of a mass grave in the area. The search party will be there by now. We'll have a better idea of where the situation stands when they return."

Cullen scarcely hears the noise of concern Fergus smothers behind one hand, the words _mass grave_ rattling his mind like an earthquake. _No_, he thinks and holds to the thought as it tries to slip into panic, _you don't know yet_. "Would they know her on sight, though?" he asks, scrambling for more answers to pick from the too-sparse information.

"The caravan, no, not likely," Varel admits, looking tired. "But Vigil's soldiers will." He doesn't quite sigh, not in front of the teyrn. "The caravan's in the inner courtyard at present, if you'd like to speak to them yourself."

Not that it'll do any good, necessarily—Varel would've been thorough getting information in the first place—but Cullen pushes up from his chair anyway, unsure if the brief tilting of the room is a lingering effect of his recovery or a physical response to the news. "It couldn't hurt. Teyrn Cousland, if you'll forgive me…"

Fergus nods, face somber. "Of course."

Cullen escapes past Varel into the hallway, needing and dreading the answers ahead almost in equal measure.

-oOo-

It's not much of a surprise for Therrin that with Dog beside her it's easier, and with her staff in her hands again it's much easier. The magic inside her seems to sharpen at the presence of the staff's focus, surging in readiness even in the absence of anything to fight.

Pity that her robes are a total loss.

Dog wags his tail in pride when Therrin finds the body of the ghoul who'd taken her things. As the others retrieve their own effects and do up the buckles and fastenings of their gear, Therrin crouches and examines the shredded-open edges of her robe, the ruined fabric caked in darkspawn ichor and dog drool. "Yes, I know, you killed it. Good Dog," she admits, swallowing her disappointment.

He licks his nose, pleased.

For a moment, she considers stripping the corpse anyway, to take her mangled robe back and see if someone at Vigil's Keep might be able to sew it back together—but the image of being stripped in the first place intrudes on her memory again unwanted, the feel of darkspawn fingers on her skin making her gorge rise. "Right," she says to no one in particular, standing. "Everything accounted for?"

"Looks like." Sigrun buckles up a gauntlet, satisfied. "Except for our packs."

Therrin lets out a breath. Of all the things not to find, it had to be food and water. "We'll make do. The surface can't be far."

Of course, it could be. Distance and direction are hard to judge down here and the dark twisting tunnels warp her perception of both, but Dog had come this way from the surface and following him seems the surest way out. Dog doesn't have any such misgivings about it, it seems, nose to the ground and tail wagging, leading the way back down the path he'd cleared.

It's a relief not to have to fight on the way out, not tired and parched as they are. Therrin picks her way over the sprawled bodies of dead darkspawn, light from her staff making the shadows seem to waver and curl. Flickers of false movement catch in the edges of her peripheral vision, a thousand small shocks that her instincts register as _enemies_, _run_. She would run, if she could, even as tired as this. She'd run all the way home to Vigil's Keep and not look back.

But Anders couldn't run. She glances back to find him leaning on his staff, face lined with creases of dirt and sweat as he trudges along wordlessly.

As the unknowable distance passes beneath her boots realization begins to evolve, worries of the emissary gnawing at her mind. It isn't going to be enough simply to get out, not in the long run. The emissary is a new and formidable threat, unlike anything she's ever seen of the darkspawn. If they leave now, it might find them again.

It had been clever enough to take them in the first place. It could be clever enough to follow, to track them to Vigil's Keep, find a way around the great dwarven doors beneath the surface and attack, just as the Orlesian Wardens had been attacked. _Capture the Grey Warden_, that first talking darkspawn had said months ago in the attack on Vigil's Keep.

And now they had been captured, their blood taken, and now they'd been freed by a ghoul. But why?

Scraps of unfinished ideas chase themselves in circles through Therrin's mind, questions without answers and incomplete hunches that amount to nothing. _Find the emissary if you can_, her thoughts amend themselves as she takes another look back at the Wardens.

As it happens, they don't have to find the emissary. In a great cavernous hall so close to the surface they can taste the fresh air, the emissary finds them.

Nathaniel spots it first, going for his bow from instinct and firing off a shot. When Therrin tracks the line of his arrow she sees the shape of the emissary's headdress silhouetted against the light, a foreboding presence that sends shock running like ice water in her veins.

The arrow falls short and clatters harmlessly against the stone wall. From this distance it's impossible to see if the emissary reacts. It only watches, two and then three long seconds of inaction sliding by as Therrin's thoughts hurtle together with conflicting dictates, _kill it_ and _run_ and _cast something, anything, now!_

"Commander?" Sigrun whispers, as though the emissary might hear.

Fight or run before it can spell them asleep again, and they're too far gone for a fight. "Go," she commands, pushing Sigrun's shoulder for emphasis. "_Now_."

But the emissary raises a hand and a leathery sound emerges from the darkness, like nothing so much as sails snapping open. An immense shadow dives from the high arched roof and hits the ground like a boulder, sending tremors rumbling through the floor in response, and then another one equally large falls on their other side, the two creatures glowing red like embers as they stretch their long membranous wings.

"Dragons," Anders murmurs as though he doesn't care one way or another. "Brilliant."

The room dissolves into fire. The dragons shriek and lunge, pinning the Wardens between them for a terrible moment before they manage to scatter, and in the vast stretches of shadow along the chamber floor Therrin loses sight of the others almost at once.

Rainwater drips in from above and leaves the floor dangerously slick, and as she dashes away she hits a slippery spot and falls with a breathless curse. As one dragon's spurt of fire roars closer she loses too many seconds scrambling to her feet. Beyond the curve of the dragon's wing she can see the others regrouping, Sigrun and Nathaniel standing guard over Anders as he reaches for a spell and one of the dragons lumbers closer.

Her summoned shards of ice biting into the dragons' tough hides are enough to send the snaky necks twisting her direction, four glittering eyes leveled at her until Dog leaps from the shadows and tries to hold on to one dragon's throat. It shakes him off and sends him tumbling across the stone but it distracts them, and Therrin barely has time to look up but the emissary is still there, watching in motionless inscrutability as the dragons take to the air, each wingbeat stirring up gusts of wind before the dragons plummet back to the ground in plumes of flame. The ground shakes again at their fall, a sifting of dust and pebbles falling from the high ceiling, a deep creaking sound from one of the thin pillars above as it shifts out of place, lurches in the air, and begins to fall.

The dragon farthest away screams when it hits, rearing in outrage as the edge of the pillar catches its tail. It flies upward in a frenzy, neck whipping and wings flung wide as it tries to shake itself free of the pain. The massive bulk of its body crashes into another pillar and sends it toppling to the floor, far too close. Therrin shouts as the ground trembles beneath her feet, trying to run away from the great stone cylinder as it rolls and breaks, and then the entire ceiling seems to waver above her, swaying under the weight of the stone above and groaning so loud it drives out all thought.

The sifting of dust and pebbles from above turns into a hail, and the roof of the cavern begins to collapse. "Go!" she shouts—where are the others? She can't find—there. "Come on!"

Sigrun and Dog race for the exit at a flat-out sprint without looking back, but Nathaniel has to stop and heave Anders over his shoulder. The emissary stands on the landing above, motionless and watching even as the cavern collapses around it, and Therrin thinks wildly _no, we can't go, we have to do something. _But it moves, finally, and hovers for a moment with a sickening flash of light that imprints itself on the backs of her eyes, blindingly bright as colors skew in hot swirls of green. When she opens them again, the rocks before the emissary are melting together, sealing it away.

_No. _But there isn't time to think. The injured dragon crashes back to the floor and lashes out at the other one in a snarl of fire and snapping teeth and roars of pain. Nathaniel is faster than she would have thought anyone could be carrying another man, and great squares of stonework fall from the ceiling above.

"Go!" Nathaniel shouts, coming along with grim determination.

"You first!" The dragons snarl at each other, oblivious to the Wardens. Therrin reaches for magic, weaving together a shield of energy above the three of them with the turbulent shreds of her concentration. The glowing arc above is enough to keep off the pebbles but if the ceiling gives way entirely there's no spell that can save them.

The creak and rumble gives way to a thunderous crash as the hill falls in from above, the dragons' roaring cut short as the hall collapses in a wave. The floor heaves beneath them and Therrin trips, catching herself only at the last second, and panic surges upward in her throat _go, go, go_ as Nathaniel finds new speed. They reach the stairs, rickety wooden things that buck and quiver with the force of the falling mine.

Nathaniel falls in the doorway and Anders hits the ground with a shout, only a moment before the outermost edifice of the mine begins to fall and they lunge outward in one final desperate press. There's dirt—fresh dirt, with grass and insects—beneath her palms, blazing sunlight overhead and air, fresh forest air, the monumental rumbling of the mine going muffled.

And then it all goes quiet. For a moment it's all Therrin can do to stare at the blades of grass between her fingertips, lungs burning with effort and brain too stunned that they survived for anything more.

"You should know," Anders says, voice thin and faint with an acid dignity, "that I hate you both."

Nathaniel begins to push to his feet and thinks better of it, sinking back to the ground. "I could have left you."

Dog bounds over and pushes his nose into Therrin's ear, snuffling in happiness, and Therrin scratches the back of his neck as she tries to breathe and let her pounding heart slow to something like normal.

Anders mulls it over. "Maybe not you, then."

"There's a river down there, isn't there?" Sigrun asks breathlessly, helmet askew, one of the horn-tips broken off and leaving a cracked stump behind. "We could—"

Water. "Yes. Go on," Therrin says, planting her staff in the ground and hauling herself upwards. Every muscle seems to tremble under her skin, watery with relief and exertion and the aftermath of terror. "I'll get Anders," she says when Nathaniel goes to help him. "Go get a drink."

She doesn't need to give the order twice. Even Dog follows when they make their way downhill in the direction of the river. "I want a raise," Anders mumbles, voice tight with pain as she helps him to his feet and wedges herself against his side, their staves angled out wide for balance.

Therrin nods, too tired to argue. "Fine."

"And a pony."

She glances at him in disbelief, but his face is perfectly straight. "I'll see what I can do."

"And I want to stay at the Keep and act as an actual healer and not walking darkspawn bait." He grunts with pain as they jostle down the hillside path.

Therrin opens her mouth to agree and closes it. "That might be a bit trickier."

He sighs. "And I was on such a roll, too." He winces, muscles working along his jaw as they jostle their way downhill, but he doesn't complain any further.

Therrin tries to straighten to better support his weight, their height disparity making it awkward. "How bad is it?"

He winces again."It's… not fun. Points for trying, yes. But do me a favor and don't ever heal me again."

"Sorry." She lets out a breath, a new kind of fear coiling cold in her mind as she looks him over, wondering. "Will you be able to fix it?"

"Oh, sure. Some of us have a talent for this sort of thing, you know. It'll take days of intensive spellwork, mind, and then perhaps a month of recuperation for everything to set properly."

She glances at him, alarmed, but he isn't joking. "Can you make it back to the keep first?"

Anders mulls it over, looking less than delighted at the prospect. "_Two_ ponies." And before she can ask what he intends to do with ponies he says, "Pity you can't shapeshift into anything useful. I could ride home, instead." He gives her a gauging look. "Are you still stuck on mouse, or do you have anything else up your sleeve?"

"I can't turn into a pony, if that's what you're asking."

"Shame." He huffs a laugh. "Though I suppose it would be even better if you could be a dragon. We could fly home in time for lunch! While I'm wishing for impossible things," he adds.

"I already promised a raise," she reminds him.

The river water is cool and wet and no matter what it tastes of, _wet_ is all Therrin cares about when they reach it at last, pulling it up in her cupped hands and drinking until she feels lightheaded. When she finally edges back from the riverbank, Nathaniel glances up, his hands still rubbing at a dark stain on his bow. "Shall we make for the Vigil?"

_Yes! _"No." Her shoulder protests when she straightens. "Not yet." She nods in the direction of the hillside. "Let me see what I can do about that mine, first, then we'll head back."

Nathaniel's eyebrows arch in surprise. "The mine."

"The cave-in wasn't big enough for the whole mine to have collapsed. And our blood's still in there somewhere. We can't leave behind our phylacteries, if that's what they are." Anders gives her a look, inscrutable, and she busies herself rolling up the battered sleeves of her dress to get the blood-crusted edges off her skin. "Get everyone out a bit farther. On the other side of the road, down by the burned caravan. It shouldn't take long."

Nathaniel gives a small nod of acknowledgement before he glances in the direction of the mine and his expression goes faintly concerned. "And you don't think the entire hill's going to collapse, too?"

"Probably." He snorts and she can't help but grin, despite everything. "Can you think of a better way to get rid of darkspawn than to drop a small mountain on them?"

"Yes," he says without a second's hesitation. "You could drop a _large_ mountain on them."

She smiles again a bit thinly, reaching for her staff. "Maybe next time."

Once Nathaniel has the others heading down the road, Therrin sighs and begins the long trudge back up the hill. Without elves attacking and darkspawn everywhere, the forest is markedly more peaceful. Up here above most of the trees there isn't even the claustrophobic feeling of being unable to see.

Here, she thinks, settling on a patch of grass halfway up the hillside. There's a clear path away if she's got to run, and up here it's quiet and close enough to cast with no distractions.

Until Dog hurtles out of the brush at full speed, tongue lolling and chest heaving with exertion as he skids to a stop beside her. Therrin pushes aside her staff when he flops down nearly on top of it, panting. "I thought I told you to go with the others."

Dog doesn't even try to look sheepish, stump of a tail wiggling back and forth as his side presses against her thigh. He heaves a gusty sigh and rests his chin on his front paws, plainly going nowhere, his eyebrows twitching in interest as she pulls the stopper on a bottle and drinks. The lyrium burns in her still-cracked throat. "All right. But be ready to run," she cautions.

He _whuffs_ a low affirmative and she turns her attention downward, threading her fingers through the grass and into the soil as though she could better feel down into the bulk of the hill below. When she closes her eyes the world seems to fall away, normal human senses eclipsed by the vast responses that come when she concentrates and stretches out with magic.

The bulk of the hillside is a sensory wash of _old cool solid_. She pushes down deeper, down through the stone to where the mine runs in honeycombed paths through the rock, down to the thrum of life inside: life, and not-life, the small sensations of hidden creatures curled in the darkness, the unnatural resonance of the darkspawn taint, pockets of air in the vast belowground where the mine's half-fallen, held up only by beams that seem like matchsticks against the heavy immensity of the rock that surrounds them. And _here_, _here_, come responses from the stone, points of pressure at the very edges of her senses, momentum in the waiting needing only a push, the hill poised to fall and crush everything below and encase it all in solid stone.

Therrin comes back to herself slowly, the wide-stretched boundary of the spell returning to something like ordinary perception only gradually. She'd known the mines were low and sprawling but she hadn't known how far down, or how much distance they actually covered. The realization of what magnitude of spell it'll take to collapse the tunnels is daunting, even filtered as it is through the dispassionate spell-senses that block out most normal feeling.

She'd only attempted to cast something so demanding twice before, and those instances had been without thought or fear because Alistair had been there, and then Cullen deep in the darkness of Kal'Hirol.

But there are no templars here. No last-second catch, should the spell prove to be too much.

Somewhere under her fingertips the emissary still lives, waiting, and bottles of Warden blood sit in the dark, ready to be used for Maker-knows-what.

Therrin lines up four bottles of potent little lyrium potions against her shin where she can reach them without having to look, pulling their stoppers one by one and nestling their flat bottoms in the dirt so they don't tip over. She gives Dog a last scratch behind the ears and takes a deep breath, squinting up at the sunlight overhead before she closes her eyes again, blocks out the world, and prepares to cast.


	36. Reunions

Cullen feels Therrin's return before the runner can even manage to bring him word, the thunderous turbulence battering at the Veil shocking him cold out of a sound sleep and sending him tearing out Vigil's doors. He can only barely see the handful of people at the end of the road—the search party and the Wardens both, it looks like, his knees feeling watery with relief for a second—but the awareness of Therrin's magic drawing claws across the Veil assaults his senses and obliterates everything else, the enormity of the maelstrom pushing through from the other side too pressing for any other concerns. He can feel the Veil strain like a cheesecloth trying to hold back a thunderstorm, wildly distorted as it warps and twists around her.

Two of the search party raise hands in greeting but he ignores them, skidding to a stop as Varel catches up behind him. "You're awake," Therrin says, her flick of a smile more like a grimace. She doesn't look at him, her pupils dilated too much even for the thin grey twilight of dawn, blank as though casting.

"You're _alive_," he retorts, voice rough. "Maker's mercy, what's happened?"

"Spell," she manages as though he wouldn't have felt it, the word choked in her throat. But Cullen and Varel aren't the only ones who've taken notice of the arlessa's return. A handful of bleary-looking nobles are coming up the path in various degrees of disheveled curiosity at the commotion. "No," Therrin says, low and pained at the touch of his instinctive surge of will. "Not in front of anyone else."

"Then stop the spell," he mutters, low and urgent.

"I can't."

The enormity of it crackles across his senses like a captive lightning strike, virulent and sustained and far too vast to let continue. The Veil shreds to nothing all around them, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. "Come on."

She stumbles when he takes her by the arm and pulls her along and he only remembers belatedly that this absorbed she can't really see, but there's hardly any time for caution. Varel takes her other arm and with that she's steadier, and Cullen leads her down to a small stand of trees and doesn't wait. The focus comes natural as ever to his mind and the words to his tongue, and he gathers up the necessary energy at the heart of him and pushes.

Therrin makes a brief strangled noise as the gargantuan spell snaps and dies, swaying before her knees buckle. Cullen only barely manages to keep her from dropping to the ground like a stone. "No," he reassures her as she fights to stay upright and can't and they sink to the ground together. "You're all right. I've got you."

He reaches for his sword and realizes he hasn't brought it, and he doesn't know how to strip mana without it. "Varel, your blade."

Varel recoils. "Ser?"

Cullen can only imagine what this must look like to someone who doesn't know, with Therrin limp in the crook of his arm, and him trying to borrow a weapon.

"No," Therrin manages, voice twisted in pain. "No, it's fine."

"It isn't." Cullen can feel the vast emptiness where the spell had been, a bleeding sort of hollowness that had nearly forced Therrin out of herself and the jerky uncoiling feeling of mana trying to refill the overstretched boundaries. "What did you do?"

Of all things, Therrin laughs, sounding dazed. "You know the important thing about having a dragon by the tail?"

Cullen scowls. "What?"

"You can't let go."

Which explains nothing; she clambers off him in a hurry to empty the contents of her stomach, the smell of sick and lyrium sharp in Cullen's nose. "How much did you _take?_"

"Enough." She coughs and then shakes all over, holding herself around the middle. "It kept getting bigger and I couldn't stop it so I had to h-hold on."

"My lady?" Cullen can just make out Lord Eddelbreck in the dim light, and when he makes to approach Cullen waves him impatiently away.

She presses her eyes closed and Cullen thinks he can hear her pulse beat at her throat. "Please get Wynne."

"She's gone," Cullen admits.

Therrin shifts, sitting in the scant grass of the roadside and trembling violently. "Here," Varel says lowly, trying to help Therrin up. "Let's get in."

It's slow going toward the Vigil with Therrin on his arm and Varel on her other side, ready if need be. He still thinks she can't see. She doesn't quite look directly at any of the few vassals that make it down the road to see what the commotion was but as long as they leave her in peace… which is, of course, too much to ask. "Are you well, my lady?"

_Damn_ Eddelbreck.

Therrin musters a smile, sounding almost normal. "I've been cleaner."

"Where are your robes?" Cullen mutters under his breath, puzzled at the bloody homespun dress.

"Torn to pieces on the corpse of a ghoul. The darkspawn stripped us when they took us captive," she mutters back, just as low.

Cullen's mind tries to catch up. "I thought you went to see to the Dalish."

"Change of plans." Her footing falters and he braces as her drag on his arm gets heavier. Inside are the rest of the Wardens, stopped just inside the main hall and all of them looking worn, Anders sitting on a makeshift stretcher petting his cat as Cullen walks by.

Once they're ensconced in Therrin's office she seems to breathe easier, slumping and looking small behind the vast cluttered surface of the desk. Varel looks nearly as worried as Cullen feels. "Commander, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she says, which Cullen knows is a lie, "a concussion from when the hill came down and… this. Anders got the worst of it. He'll be healing for a month." Cullen can feel mana pouring back erratic, the surge of response from the other side of the Veil and Therrin's defenses stretched pitifully thin. He can almost feel it, could hold it in his hands as it faded: bare remnants of willpower worn low, the bright radiance of her magic no match for the oceanic darkness of the other side and the unimaginable vulnerability of being so open without a shred of proper defense.

_What would you have done, if there had been no one to end the spell?_

"I held on," Therrin says, watching his face and arguing with all he hadn't said. "I didn't have enough to stop it, but I held on. Since yesterday. We walked through the night to get back." It doesn't ease his mind at all. After a moment she looks away and leans down for something in a drawer, emerging with a long dagger and holding it out to him hilt-first.

Varel frowns. "Commander."

"It's always been in there," she explains, though Cullen suspects that isn't the cause of Varel's consternation. "It ought to go to Nathaniel, probably. He got the Wardens in?"

_You didn't see them?_ "Yes," Cullen answers.

"You're looming again," she tells him when he hesitates with the blade in his hands. "It would be safest to do it, I know. Go on."

Cullen gives two firm brief taps with the flat of the blade against Therrin's upper arm, drawing out mana, feeling it course through his body and dissipate as the Veil tightens and reweaves in response. When mana does begin to trickle back it's slower, controlled instead of wild, and Therrin buries her face in her hands and doesn't look up. "Sorry for this, Varel." It comes out muffled. Cullen can hear the slow leak of tears in her voice. "I think my body's under the impression that I've tried to renegotiate my own magical capacity." When she looks up, her eyes are wet. "For what it's worth, I haven't. How's the Vigil?"

Varel watches them both, dubious, but if he's alarmed at what he's seen he takes it in stride. "Under control. Mostly concerned with your absence, until now, and with the arrival of the lords of Amaranthine. The king sent word that he'd be arriving but there's been no sign of him. I believe this is all the vassals we can expect to attend." He makes a noise like a soft laugh. "With the darkspawn on the roads I don't know that we could have run them off, even if you hadn't made it for the wedding. But it is cutting it close. If you're unwell it can be pushed back."

"What? No." Therrin blinks a few times, rapidly. "When is it?"

"Originally planned for tomorrow, Commander."

"Oh." She leans forward, thinking. "I knew we'd been held for days. I didn't know it was _that_ long."

"Held by the darkspawn," Cullen prompts. Just the idea of it makes his insides squirm.

"Yes. We found the Dalish—one elf, anyway, killing people along the Pilgrim's Path."

Varel's eyebrows rise. "One elf?"

Therrin sighs. "Mage. She may have been a lure, I don't know. Anders was wounded in the fight. We had to take cover, but it was a trap. There was an emissary," she says, leaning forward and looking grimly at Varel. "I think it might have had something to do with the attacks on the Orlesian Wardens. It took our blood and kept us under a spell, sedated, until we escaped."

"_Was_ an emissary?"

"Like nothing I'd ever seen. Incredibly powerful, very intelligent. I'm…" She winces. "I'm almost sure it's dead. When we escaped, a part of the mine caved in. I collapsed the rest of it with magic."

Varel considers. "I believe I know that mine. Silverite, isn't it?" The brightening light of the new day begins to dispel the lingering shadows of the room, painting lines of sunrise-gold along the edges of his armor. "Do you think this emissary might be behind the darkspawn's strange behavior since the Blight?"

"I think so." She rubs at one eyebrow. "I don't want to spread word that it's over in case it's not. But _Maker_, if you could've felt it." For a moment her eyes look faraway again, bright with magic. "Hundreds of them dying all at once. Perhaps a thousand or more, in the deepest parts."

"And you think you killed this emissary?"

"I think so." Her fingers tremble on the desktop and she catches Cullen looking and folds them in her lap. "I don't know for certain. But I didn't feel it, after the hill came down. I don't want to call it too quickly, with no body. But they went quiet. Very quiet, like they haven't been in… months. I can only hope it stays that way." She laughs, a little rueful. "Of course, I'd rather have the body so I could be sure."

Cullen tries to imagine a hill falling, the darkspawn beneath crushed by tons of stone.

"So would I," Varel admits, but he looks relieved just the same. "Still, such a blow might be enough to hold them off for some time even if this emissary survived."

"I hope so." Therrin leans back in the chair, momentarily dwarfed by the cluttered bulk of the desk. "I'm ready for a rest."

Varel takes it as a cue, standing. "I'll see to it you aren't disturbed. And if you're certain you don't want the ceremony rescheduled…"

"No, of course not." Therrin musters a smile that melts Cullen's insides, even watery as it is. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Varel makes for the door as quietly as a shadow, and leaves them in peace, while it lasts.

-oOo-

Nightmares are nothing new, not to Therrin. Even before she had been taken into the Grey Wardens she'd had her share of them, recurring visions of the Tower falling from beneath her feet and leaving her to scream on the long fall down into Lake Calenhad, or of being trapped beneath something immovable and pinned in place in claustrophobic misery. The darkspawn hadn't helped matters any—being a Warden had brought with it a half-dozen new flavors of nightmare—but those are known quantities, identifiable, and if they make her dreams a perilous place to be sometimes the horror of the nightmares can always be dismissed on awakening.

The nightmare that plagues her after she returns to Vigil's Keep is a different sort of monster, far more insidious than any phantasm of darkspawn or falling, a different kind of claustrophobic entrapment with Cullen at the heart of it, betrayer and destroyer.

She lurches awake with a shout, the tears from her nightmare hitting her full-force in the waking world as she jerks and falls out of bed, a brief pain at the back of her hand as she reaches out to catch herself and knocks the lamp to the ground and it smashes. The floor goes wet with oil as she tries to untwist from the bedclothes, trapped and struggling _(she had been trapped and it had been all her own doing),_ frantic as the nightmare looms at the edges of her mind as though it could snatch her back in unwilling.

Pain slices across her hand and it goes warm with blood, a distant feeling compared to the pull of the Fade and the body-wracking sobs she can't silence. She tries to muffle the noise with her unwounded hand before she can wake Cullen.

Too late. "What is it?" he asks, sleepiness rapidly giving way to urgency. "What's wrong?" The bedclothes rustle as he rolls over in the dark.

"Nothing," she manages, pulling her soaked nightdress away from the worst of the oil. "A nightmare. Go back to sleep."

A short silence follows and then she hears him get out of bed entirely, squeezing her eyes together and biting back _go away, don't_— "There's broken glass," she warns, voice cracking on the words. "I broke the lamp."

"Are you all right?" She can nearly feel his hesitation. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine," she lies, wincing when he fumbles for something across the room and comes over. "There's broken _glass_—"

"You said. Here, light us a candle."

She shakes her head and realizes he can't see it. "I can't."

She can almost feel his hesitation like another presence in the room, and then hears rummaging sounds and then the striking of something. He frowns as light pools out around them, a warm glow, so different from the cold Fade-light in which— "You're crying."

"Nightmare," Therrin shrugs off, and then because the lie is easier than the truth, "The darkspawn." She watches his hands as he reaches for the broken shards of the lamp, stacking them unevenly to one side. He had been exactly so methodical in her nightmare, too, his loyalties pushed too far and turning against her, the whole of her world rattling apart at his hands.

She claps both hands over her mouth to stop up the noises of her renewing tears, curling her knees in close as though if she could only be small enough it would all disappear.

Cullen watches in bewilderment. "Therrin, my _goodness_, are you sure you're all right?"

"No." _It isn't real, it isn't real, there's no sense in crying over it because it isn't real. _"I cut my hand," she says by way of explanation, holding it out for him to see.

"You should heal that." Cullen takes her hand and curls her own fingers back over her bloody palm.

She almost does, unthinking, the long-ingrained habit of self-healing so automatic that she doesn't think about the lingering darkness of the Fade until she reaches for magic and brushes against the strained-thin Veil, pouring too far to the other side before she can stop it. The touch of it is like a black fire and she snatches back away in an instant, burned, the pain of it worse than the cut on her hand, body and soul-deep.

But Cullen had felt it too—or felt something—because he makes a grim noise of understanding and a push of will registers across the edge of her senses, a barrier erecting, fortification between herself and the lingering darkness. It's easier to breathe, all at once, a tightness in her chest that she hadn't even known existed until it eases. The relief of it jars her almost as much as the nightmare had, Cullen's hands open in invitation—

_(She had built up the cage around herself and called it love and there was no way to run when it'd become a prison, everything destroyed at Cullen's hands but she'd given him the tools to do it—)_

_Stop._

"Therrin." It sounds like a question, like _tell me what to do_, and she doesn't know.

She reaches for him instead, ignoring the squirm of the nightmare-fed fears at his touch, holding on tightly as tears come again that she can't stop, pouring out every bit of grief and terror against him. It isn't real, _absolutely_ isn't real. This is real with the both of them here, his hands on her back, his shirt going wet with her tears.

As time slips by the edge of the horror blunts and begins to erode away. The tears seem almost cleansing, then, washing away the relentless fatigue, the overblown shadows of fear until she can trace the terrors backward as she calms.

Nightmares don't come from nowhere. And this… this particular set of fears is new, an echo of all that Anders had said, magnified by her own lack of defense in the aftermath of the spell that brought down the mine. A shadow, that's all.

She feels Cullen reach and fumble for the little drawer before he offers a handkerchief. "Thanks," she mumbles against his shoulder, wiping her eyes and nose and balling up the cloth in her hand. "Sorry. I should have expected this."

"No harm done. Look," he says quietly, pointing to the window. "It's almost morning anyway."

The first halo of morning light is just visible over the eastern hills. The sight comes as a balm, all unexpected, banishing the vestiges of her nighttime fears. It's dawn on a new day and the darkspawn are quiet, and these are Anders' ghosts haunting her dreams, Anders' fears eating at her, not her own.

Maybe he's right, she thinks as she leans against Cullen, lulled by the light and the beat of his heart beneath her ear into a depleted sort of calm. Maybe this peace isn't going to last. Maybe the Chantry will come for them, someday.

But it isn't going to be today.

The day is full enough as it is, and there is no shortage of things to be done when Therrin and Cullen finally emerge. The lords of Amaranthine seem to sniff around like dogs, wary that yesterday's entrance was symptomatic of some larger problem. Therrin only keeps herself as bland and cheerful as possible. Everyone is nervy enough as it is. She has a brief mental image of the looks on the vassals' faces if she tried to explain the mechanics of magical overextension and has to grin, despite it all. Better to keep matters light as she can. No one expects too much, it seems, and for that she's grateful.

If this whole taking-it-easy business is because of the wedding, she ought to get married more often.

Still, there's so much activity that she can't help but cast about for a retreat, a spot away from the bustling of maids and their thousand preparations, away from those among the ladies who seem to want to commiserate about how terribly nervous Therrin must be. She isn't, but they're beginning to make her nervous, as though they could feed it to her through expectation.

At least paperwork is always there to do, providing all the excuse she needs to while away the time in private. In her office it's quiet, cooler away from the press of bodies in the hall, and she falls automatically into the routine of reading and marking, reading and marking, scarcely looking up when Cullen looks in to remind her of the time, when a maid brings in water, or when Varel opens the door for Dog.

She squints at a written request for a dozen of Cullen's newly-trained soldiers, trying to remember if Jarric's estate is big enough to warrant two guards, much less a dozen. If she remembers the right place they have more pigs than people and no extra housing to speak of. She doesn't know what a dozen soldiers would guard.

There comes a double-knock at the door and Cullen's voice, muffled by the wood. "Therrin?"

"Come in." She sets the request at the top of her stack to ask Varel about, moving on to the next. "Just finishing up." The glint of highly-polished plate armor catches her eye and she glances up, impressed. His hair's newly cut and his new armor gleams in the light, the white steel Wade had worked it in reminiscent enough of his old templar armor to make her breath catch in her chest. "You look nice."

"I ought to," Cullen returns mildly. "I'm getting married in fifteen minutes."

Her stomach and heart both race for her throat. "Fifteen?" Therrin boggles, scrambling up from the desk in a hurry and banging her hip on the corner as she hurtles for the door, calling over her shoulder, "You said we had more than an hour!"

"That was more than an hour ago!" he calls back as she races from the office down the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time. Fifteen minutes, sweet _Andraste_ how could she have let the time get away from her? And of course the bedroom is in a state of cheerful chaos, with every bit of clothing she owns strewn about from earlier and so she can't find anything she needs.

Why hadn't she kept that grey dress of Leliana's when she had offered it? She has nothing to wear and this is _ridiculous_.

Cullen reappears at the doorway by the time she's dragging a comb through her stubborn hair, her haste only making it worse. "I told you you'd be late to your own wedding," he says, arms crossing.

"I'm not going to be late," she says, though all evidence points to the contrary. She stares into the mirror and thinks: _this is hopeless_. "Unlace me, then, and hurry." But his fingers are too slow and she's too impatient so she takes over, and beneath her jittery hands the ties to her corselet go knotted and impossible and fidgeting with worry doesn't help.

She really is going to be late, and Cullen is only watching, trying not to laugh.

"I'm going to have to wear robes," she warns him, yanking at the still-stubborn laces and looking at the sprawled-out clothes. There are tan robes worn at the hems and green enchanter's robes with stains of unmentionable origins, there are the blue witch's robes she had worn the day Cullen kissed her by the lake but they're all breast and hip and the vassals would _die_.

"You can't wear robes," Cullen says, looking vastly amused, leaning against the wall and being less helpful than he's ever been. "Everyone will know."

Therrin freezes. "Know what?"

"That you're a mage." He punctuates this with an exaggerated cringe that he can't keep from sliding into a smile.

"You're _laughing_ at me," Therrin complains, only a second from burning the tangled laces to a crisp out of frustration. But she does get them sorted out and dives into her best red robes, and when she glances up from yanking the sash into place Cullen is watching, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he smiles.

Her heart seems to skip in response, a sun-struck dazed feeling with a quiet love at the heart of it like a glow through her skin, warming her from the inside out. More now than ever the shadows of the night before seem only that—shadows—only the dark reflection of something bright and strong and true.

She could stare at him all day. Instead she shakes herself and ties up the knot at her waist. "Are you really going to take your sword?"

"Unless you'd rather I didn't, yes."

Do most people go armed to their weddings? Therrin doesn't know. "Probably for the best, isn't it?" She loops the leather strap over her head and takes up her staff. Best to be ready, for whatever arises.

One last glance at the wreck of the clothes-strewn bedroom and she sighs, interrupted in her thoughts by the touch of his hand on her cheek before he kisses her, the havoc and hurry going still in an instant.

"I think we're supposed to do that later," she murmurs when they part, lips still brushing his mouth.

"I felt like doing it now." He leans in for another, deeper kiss, warm and unhurried as she slips a hand to the back of his neck. She could stay here just like this for hours, content with his arms around her and the plate armor solid against her chest, unleashing a flood of memories for reasons Wade couldn't possibly have known about when he designed it as all the world seems to slow to a halt.

Only it hasn't. There will be vassals waiting downstairs, Varel counting the minutes. "We're going to be late to our own wedding," Therrin reminds him, not pulling away.

"I don't care."

"Yes you do." It's an effort to step away but she does it, taking his gauntleted hand in her own and tugging. "Come on. Let's get married."

"Bossy," Cullen mumbles, but it only makes her grin, an unspeakable lightness that makes her seem to float instead of walk down the steps.

Sure enough, Varel is waiting, an assembly of nobles gathered in more or less patient boredom and the Wardens standing by in various states of attention. Nathaniel looks nearly like one of the vassals; beside him Sigrun watches everyone, looking more comfortable in armor than the nobles in their finery, and Anders catches sight of her and gives a mocking little toast, comfortably situated in a chair and from the look of it, with a generous head start on the drinking.

"I'll go collect the stragglers," Varel says, when they get close enough. "We'll begin in a moment."

Therrin nods and holds to Cullen's arm, surveying the room as a giddy sort of agitation swells up in her chest. Yes, there's Fergus by the fire and Justice over by the wall, helmet firmly on. Alistair still hasn't made it, which only brings an odd feeling of commingled disappointment and relief. And she'd known Leliana wouldn't be able to come, not all that distance with darkspawn on the roads.

The doors of the hall fly open with a bang like one of Dworkin's explosives, enough to send the assembly jumping in surprise as a runner hurtles forward.

Oghren, she realizes, freezing in place.

The nobles part for him like herds of deer leaping from the path of a bronto and he draws to a halt in front of the Wardens, skin waxy and sweat-soaked from exertion. "Warden. Commander." He leans his hands on his knees and sucks in enormous breaths. "We've got trouble."

"What is it?" Therrin asks, dreading the answer.

He raises his head and his eyes are stone-sober, grim and purposeful in a way he hadn't been since the end of the Blight. "An army of darkspawn are marching for Amaranthine. They'll be within sight of the city gates by now."

"The city's already undermanned," Varel says in a low voice and Therrin startles because she hadn't seen him return. "With the soldiers scattered over the arling, Amaranthine's defenses won't last."

Therrin swallows, her throat gone parched in an instant. "How long before we can mobilize Vigil's soldiers?"

"Too long." This from Oghren, still heaving for breath. "I know what's coming. I _felt_ them." He collects himself upright, ignoring the rising murmur of the vassals around him. "We're not going to have enough time to get an army together, Commander. If we're going to stop this it's gonna have to be _now_."

"He may be right," Varel says. "Our forces can't move quickly enough. But a small band might make it in time."

"Then we should go," Cullen says, looking as though he'd prefer to have his sword in his hands already.

The babble of a couple-dozen conversations rises in her ears, the sense of time slipping away jarring like an enormous clock in her head sharpening down to a pointed clarity: almost every noble in Amaranthine, here, and the city under attack. "No," Therrin says, the word coming out pained. "Stay. I'll take the Wardens." Cullen gives her a sharp look, confused, and there isn't time to explain to him about her fears of the darkspawn's corruption, of poison in his blood beneath the overwhelming force of a darkspawn army, or to explain the hook beneath her ribs, the caught feeling of having sworn to protect these people, so to abandon them for the city now… no.

Stephen is here and Vigil is her home; if she must go to defend Amaranthine she can't leave them unguarded. "Protect them," she says, a low order as Cullen's eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Nathaniel, Sigrun, A—" Not Anders. "Justice. You still want to fight darkspawn?"

Cullen's hand closes over her elbow. "Therrin—"

"He's a Warden," she mutters. "Let him die like one, if it comes to it." _Again_.

Justice's head rises. "I do, yes. Am I to accompany you?"

"And what about you?" Cullen whispers, low and adamant. "Just yesterday—"

_You were undefended and now you're running off with an abomination_, she finishes in her head. "I have to go," she interrupts, choking on the words. "Can we pick this up when I get back?"

She means the wedding. From his expression he's taken it to mean the argument. But he straightens, looking grim. "I'll see you to the road."

It thrums in her brain along the too-short path from Vigil's Keep—she had killed them at the mine and forced their hand, and now the city is going to pay—and Cullen only looks dogged and severe beside her, not understanding.

But there isn't time to explain. She could pour out words like a fountain and never manage to say it all. She hesitates for a moment when they reach the road, no farewell in the world good enough to give voice to everything in her heart.

"Be careful," Cullen says, taking in the sight of Justice and Oghren and the Wardens all assembled. "Come _back_."

Just as well she'd come to her own wedding armed. Just as well they'd got their kiss in earlier, because there's no opportunity now. "I will," she swears, a little hope sinking cold down her throat that she'll be able to keep her promise.

It doesn't ease the grimness of Cullen's expression at all but there isn't time for anything else. The Wardens take the road and make east with all haste, to the city besieged and the waiting war.


	37. Keep and City

Whatever Alistair had been expecting to see when he arrived at Vigil's Keep, this isn't it.

He had thought maybe Therrin would scowl at him for being late. He'd tried to make it on time, truly he had, but Denerim is full of _one more thing, Your Majesty, _and _one more_ and _one more_ and in a choice between Therrin and his never-ending stack of responsibilities, his responsibilities come first. But no, Therrin is gone, the arling besieged, every minor noble and petty lordling crammed into the great hall of Vigil's Keep like sheep huddling together while the wolves circle outside.

As though this hadn't been difficult enough already. Now he's stuck kicking himself for not arriving sooner, walking in a prickly silence with Cullen toward a more private place to talk.

"How many Wardens did she take?"

Cullen gives him a sharp look, startled out of his unhappy reverie. "Four." Alistair winces, a quick expression he can't suppress, and Cullen's mood only seems to darken, voice souring. "She insisted I stay at the Vigil, or I would have accompanied her myself."

Four Wardens. _I hope you know what you're doing_, he thinks in Therrin's direction. "If it's true that they're fighting a darkspawn army, no wonder."

Cullen scowls. "I've fought darkspawn before."

"Not an army." Memories swarm like wasps of the dark days after the Archdemon fell, of the darkspawn's final victims in Denerim, people felled to glancing blows, splashes of blood that had been death to all they'd touched. "She probably wants to keep you safe."

A small grim noise indicates what Cullen thinks of that.

For some reason the office feels like a refuge, away from the masses of people and the air of tense expectation. He can see touches of Therrin, here and there, books lined up in precise little stacks, an odd-shaped lump of rock that must've caught her interest. He sighs and sinks into her chair, fiddling with the edge an envelope.

Cullen's grim expression doesn't change. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes." Alistair rubs one hand across his face, tired from his hair to the bottoms of his feet. Just as well he hadn't caught sight of Fergus right off, though he knows he's here somewhere. Fergus always knows how to make him feel ever-so-slightly off-balance, though he will doubtlessly talk to him soon."It's been a difficult last several months, let's put it that way. The trouble in Amaranthine hasn't helped."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it hasn't helped." He sighs and rubs at that tense spot between his eyebrows, the one that aches like the seed of a full-on headache just waiting to sprout. And he can't say _look, I really ought to talk to Therrin about this_ because she isn't here. But Cullen's her—well, not husband, from what he gathers, not yet (and it's odd to think of Therrin married, still)—but if she'd trusted Cullen this far there had to be something in him worth trusting.

And it's the seneschal's business anyway, really, since he'll likely have to mop up the mess on a local level. It doesn't make it any easier.

"Grey Wardens being around is still a pretty new idea for Ferelden, remember," he hedges, wondering how much he ought to say. "And giving Amaranthine over hasn't…" It sticks in his chest, snagging like a thorn, the idea that his high-minded idea to restore the honor of the Grey Wardens had all gone wrong for reasons that have almost nothing to do with the Wardens themselves. "The aftermath of the Blight has been difficult enough to deal with without upending so many conventions."

It feels like an evasion to use Eamon's words instead of his own, but he doesn't really know how to say it otherwise.

Least of all to Therrin. Maybe it's just as well she isn't here, not yet. He can practice now, and by the time she returns he'll be able to spit it out properly.

"Conventions," Varel says softly after a moment, more to himself than anything. "The Commander and I discussed it, yes."

Cullen looks from Alistair to Varel, clearly confused and just as clearly not liking it. "Discussed what?"

"I'd hoped…" For some reason failure tastes bitter. "I'd hoped to take care of it quietly." It hardly seems fair that she'd made him a king and he'd made her an arlessa just to take it away. But it seems sometimes that the more he struggles to move the kingdom forward the more they dig in their heels. Even a mage killing an Archdemon hadn't changed certain minds about where mages belonged, and few had said it outright but Alistair knew. Magic was one black mark, the continued presence of the darkspawn was another, and it was too perilous a situation to let be.

Just think, less than a year ago he'd been prepared to offer her freedom for the Circle of Magi, if she'd only asked.

Cullen goes white with anger as understanding kicks in a few seconds too late. "You're taking back the title, aren't you? After all that. After _everything_."

"Perhaps we should let the Commander take it up with the King," Varel suggests mildly. "When she returns."

Oh joy. "Yes," Alistair agrees, the weight of disappointment almost as heavy as the kingdom. _Please. Let it be quick. _"I only thought you—"

There's a clamor in the hallway, the metal-ring of armor of a man-at-arms running this way, and all at once the hairs on Alistair's neck rise in dread as he feels the darkspawn, close. "Seneschal Varel!" says the man-at-arms. "They're coming, ser!"

"The Wardens?"

"The darkspawn! Scouts sighted an army heading for the Vigil—"

_An army._ "No." Alistair's stomach drops but there's no mistaking the crawling dark feeling through his veins, a single point in his perception widening into more, doubling and tripling and Maker's _breath_. "No," he says again, shuddering out of his terrible reverie, rising and reaching automatically for his sword. "They're already here."

-oOo-

There has to be an end, Therrin thinks. There has to be a moment where the death and destruction and the howling madness stops, where the world takes a breath and the enemies stop coming and everything begins to recover.

The desperate flight from Vigil's Keep had been bad enough but nothing could have prepared her for the magnitude of the entire city under attack, the banners flying in acrid clouds of tainted smoke, the rain of ashes from above making it hard to see and harder to breathe. There haven't been this many darkspawn in one place since the battle at Denerim (and _Maker_, there'd been so many dead then) but this is worse because the darkspawn are coming from beneath, tearing their way upward from the ground and pouring through not in the roads and empty spaces but through houses, clusters of shops and refugee tents, slaughtering all in their path.

They double back to the main gate at the sight of the constable and his handful of guards. "Warden-Commander!"

"Come on!" she shouts over the clamor. Though no, something clicks in her memory, Cullen had sent him soldiers and they could use them. "Where are your men?"

"They rallied at the docks!" On the other side of the city, Therrin thinks, hope sinking as he motions down the street. A handful of men begin to run their direction, charging down the road stairs with all haste. "We have a few here with us—" But something along the road attracts the soldiers' attention and they wheel to face it, quickly enough to make Therrin jump.

The darkspawn running up the path hadn't registered over the seething maelstrom of the darkspawn army and her own jangling nerves. "Do not kill this one!" It spreads its hands wide in a gesture of peace, stumbling as it slows just out of weapons-range.

A human gesture.

"This one—" Its chest heaves with exertion. "This one is bringing you a message."

Her blood runs cold. The First had said the same thing, right before it'd drawn them all into the Fade; Therrin grips her staff and levels it at the darkspawn's face. At her side Dog crouches, snarling. "_What_ message?"

The darkspawn's eyes fix worriedly on the end of her staff. "The Mother's army, it marches to Vigil's Keep. She attacks now! The Architect, he sends me to warn you!"

Therrin stares at the creature, stunned still, fragments of thoughts rattling in her head—an army, heading to Vigil's Keep, the Architect… it could only be the emissary with the ruined face in the Wending Wood. She _hadn't_ killed him, she realizes, the thought like an anchor to drag down her hopes and drown them. _"Why?"_ she forces out, shaking with rage and the effort to contain it.

"The Architect wishes to have the Grey Wardens' trust," it says, almost pleading. "He does not wish to see the Mother succeed. You must save the Keep and finish the Mother in her lair." It edges back a step when Therrin advances. "You must—"

The Mother, the Architect. Therrin could scream for the maddening agony of half-answers. "If the Mother's army's at Vigil, whose army is _this?_" She jabs a finger back at the city. They're losing time. More people are dying by the moment and they don't have a single second to stand here and argue. But months of careening along blindly are too much to bear and a dull red rage beats at the forefront of her brain; she would rip answers one by one out of the creature's brain if she could. "The Architect's?"

What a fine way to earn Grey Warden trust, devouring an entire city of innocents.

"You cannot let the Mother's plan succeed!" it begs, fumbling the words and casting about for an opening before the guards surround it and bear it to the ground, restraining it in place.

"Question it," she orders, lightheaded as though the sheer blunt force of horror has detached her feelings from her body. It's too much to be real, this _has_ to be a nightmare. It isn't. She watches the darkspawn on the ground as it struggles, mouth opening and closing in silent distress, and goes numb. "Find out what else it knows, and then kill it."

"Warden-Commander?"

There's a question in there, and she doesn't know which one or how to answer, doesn't know who this Mother is or why she'd send an army to the Keep, doesn't know if she can believe any word that comes out of a darkspawn mouth, ever. The image comes unbidden, with staggering force: of Vigil besieged, of Cullen and Stephen and every vassal who'd sworn fealty waiting inside Vigil's walls while the darkspawn bear down upon them, innocents huddled in the dark waiting for the inevitable.

And then another group of guards arrive, Cullen's soldiers, and they declare that the city is lost.

They don't have time to argue—they don't—but Therrin listens anyway as they do it, paralyzed by horror and a terrible creeping certainty. In the city before her are Nathaniel's sister and the mother of Oghren's child and thousands of innocent lives she'd sworn to protect. In the other direction lies everything she loves, the weight of thousands against the weight of hundreds and her heart on the wrong side of the balance.

People are dying while the soldiers make their case for abandoning the city, for heading to Vigil to regroup with the soldiers there. _Burn the city to keep the darkspawn from following us, yes I know there are still people in there, but we can't help them and we can't retreat with the darkspawn on our heels._

It catches in her brain like a phantom of _annulment,_ a final push that cements a decision almost too terrible to make. "We fight here," she manages, her tongue so thick and reluctant the words hardly make it out and she has to repeat herself.

The soldiers hesitate. "Commander."

"_Arlessa_," she reminds them, the decision like lead chasing through her veins, turning her into something colder than flesh. There will be no forgiveness for this, not even if it's right. "We fight here," she makes herself say again. "We save Amaranthine."

-oOo-

Night in Amaranthine comes with a sick sort of quiet. Battle on a battlefield is difficult enough but this had been a new kind of atrocity, even in Therrin's experience. Bodies litter the streets, of darkspawn and guards and citizens alike, families who'd panicked and bolted for the gates and hadn't made it, their effects strewn across the stones to be crushed beneath the fray.

More than once, Therrin had wondered if Amaranthine had truly been beyond saving, and if it was too late to regroup and press toward Vigil's Keep, but there hadn't been an opportunity to break from the fight until the darkspawn inside the city gates had been slaughtered and night fell. By then, it had been too late.

Therrin sits on the high edge of the battlements, watching Vigil burn.

The vile feeling of another wave of darkspawn approaching murmurs along her senses, the night air thick with humidity and smoke. She ought to join the others holed up in the Chantry. The few nervous templars still in Amaranthine stand guard at the doors, a last line of defense.

Therrin thinks of Lothering, hopelessness curling up close beside the numb cold feeling in her chest.

From here she can't make out the individual fires but she knows where Vigil is as though it had been imprinted on the map of her heart. As she watches, pillars of smoke rise into the night and blot out the stars.


	38. Charge and Charges

The mortals are afraid.

Fear is nearly a palpable presence in the room, packed in tight with the restless citizens. There are families in alcoves and Chantry sisters like small collections of sunrises, humans and elves and dwarves huddled alike in clusters of fright.

Some are sleeping. This is why the Wardens came to the Chantry, Justice knows: to sleep, to collect themselves in safety before the coming wave of darkspawn arrives. But the Wardens are not all sleeping.

Justice does not sleep—cannot sleep, though he'd tried to learn, in hopes that it would slow this body's decay—but the strange infectious dread of the people leaves him restless, the pressure and the still close air inside his helmet uncomfortable.

Aura is here.

Twice before in the night he had seen her, jostled out of the way as more poor souls crowded into the already-packed Chantry. Her presence stands out in his attention like the moon among stars, bright and far away and hopelessly arresting for reasons he cannot even begin to name. Something in him aches at the closeness of her, another remnant of Kristoff, foreign but wholly inexorable. Justice holds himself at the very limit of the Chantry, shoulders pressed against the wall, and waits for morning.

But sometime before dawn, Aura finds him.

It is a strange pain that settles in him as she picks her way over, her skirts in one hand as she murmurs apologies to the people who make way for her until she comes to sit beside him. "You are the spirit," she whispers, not a question as her eyes rake over his full closed helmet. "In my husband's body."

Justice nods.

Aura considers him, and Justice worries—last time she had been distraught, had shouted and wept and fled—but this time she has approached him, and he does not know what to make of this at all. "Let me see you?"

Obediently, Justice pulls off his helm, mindful of the shadows in which they sit, mindful of the templars on the other end of the space.

Aura seems unconcerned with templars, or with shadows, or with anything but tracing his borrowed face with her eyes. "They are saying you saved us," she says, very low. "That the guard wished to burn the city, and the Wardens refused."

"The darkspawn are not yet eradicated," Justice corrects. "The battle is not over."

"That is what Kristoff would say." Aura does not smile. In Kristoff's memories she had always been so quick to smile. "Is it true? Did the guard want to burn the city?"

"Yes. Not all," Justice explains. "Vigil's Keep is under attack as well. Some in the guard believed the battle would be better joined there. The Commander believed otherwise." He glances again at the assembled Wardens, at Sigrun and Nathaniel slumped and dozing, at the Commander awake, hemmed in by the dog and the dwarf who had scarcely left her side. They speak in low voices, too quietly for Justice to hear.

Aura follows his gaze. "So few of you."

"There is another. He was injured, and remained behind. The Commander's betrothed fights with the Wardens as well, but she bade him stay." Aura doesn't respond. "They fear Vigil's Keep is lost," Justice ventures. "They seem… grieved."

Aura doesn't look at him, but her voice is lower than before. "What do you know of grief, spirit?"

Justice considers this. Separation from the Fade has caused him grief, but it is not the sort Aura might understand. Everything else comes from Kristoff's memories, from Kristoff's experiences. "You lost a child, the year after you married." Aura does look at him then, expression utterly unreadable. "You were ill for some time. Kristoff grieved for that child and blamed himself for its death." The darkspawn taint, the reminder comes through Kristoff's memories, a thin dark thread of sorrow and guilt.

"It was not his fault," Aura protests, as faintly as though she could argue with ghosts.

"Perhaps not," Justice agrees carefully. "He believed it so. He believed you would die as well, for some days. He…" The memories are indistinct but undiluted in the force of their emotions, anguished hours in dark wakeful nights like this one. "It worsened his grief, that he believed himself the cause of your pain."

Aura is quiet so long Justice worries that his chosen response was the wrong one. Wynne had instructed him to hold his peace whenever possible, but Aura had asked.

"You have his memories?" she asks, at long last.

"Some," he admits. But Aura would not wish to hear what Kristoff knew of her, not from Justice, no matter how much he could say. It is not an easy thing, to live in another's body. "Tell me," Justice says instead, the echoes of Kristoff's devotion and his own discomfort pressing towards the same end. "If there is anything I might do to ease your grief, tell me and I shall do it."

Aura's mouth twists, eyes going hard in the scant light. "Avenge him, spirit." She glares at him and it does not occur to him at first that her anger is not meant for him alone. "I will wait for Kristoff's ashes as long as I must. But give me this."

"Vengeance," he echoes. "Yes. I understand." But Cullen had killed the darkspawn who had killed Kristoff. Any vengeance yet to be had must be taken from the darkspawn as a whole. "You shall have it."

Aura seems satisfied—though not pleased, not from what Justice can discern—and lapses into silence beside him in the tense crowded dark. Justice considers vengeance in the empty hours before dawn, half-formed memories washing up from the depths of his decaying brain of happier times with the woman beside him, in another life, in a place far from Amaranthine.

-oOo-

Vigil besieged is a nightmare.

The high stone walls tremble and shudder beneath the onslaught, darkspawn breaking like waves against a cliff as Voldrick swears to anyone who will listen that his construction will hold.

Cullen listens but can't believe him, not with the ogres hurling boulders outside, not with the dark chittering noises coming from below. It was one thing to seal the gates and hunker inside Vigil's walls but the fight hadn't ended there. The darkspawn are tunneling, frenzied with a madness the likes of which Cullen has never seen. Archers try to take out the ogres at a distance and become pincushioned almost at once with darkspawn arrows. Anders drags himself outside to the battlements for five seconds to make the attempt and hurries back in swearing viciously, a rain of arrows clattering to the stone around him, thwarted only barely by a spell-shield flung up just in time.

They are not going to survive.

Cullen tries to push the thought away and can't, not through the first day of fighting or the second, and by the third, it seems to have taken root and flourished in the most fatalistic corners of his brain.

The darkspawn are too numerous and too single-minded, and without hope of reinforcements all they can do is hold on until the bitter end.

It feels familiar, naggingly so at first, until they lose the first courtyard, the darkspawn tunneling in too fast to stop, and they have to fall back inward toward the keep. In the middle of the hopeless scrambling retreat the fragment of remembrance twists like a mirror-shard, illuminating dark corners of his memory. It feels like the Tower under attack.

They are losing ground with every hour, losing men with every battle, and they're running out of things to lose.

Cullen finally retreats to the most guarded heart of the keep for a bare handful of hours, exhausted to the marrow of his bones and falling asleep as soon as he can pry himself out of his armor. The murmur-sounds of worried people rush like water through his ears, like a river bearing him through a dreamless sleep and out the other side only barely more refreshed than before.

When he wakes up, he's being watched.

Stephen huddles at the edge of Cullen's makeshift pallet, knees drawn up and feet bare and eyes red. From crying, or from the smoke and ashes that hang in the air, Cullen doesn't know. "You're supposed to be with the other children," Cullen scolds without any real feeling, every bruise on his body protesting at once when he sits upright.

"I was." Stephen wipes his nose on the back of his wrist, so miserable that Cullen can feel the magic in him strain and rattle, barely contained. The king seems to sense it too, glancing over from his chair nearby, but none of the other recovering soldiers in the packed-tight space gives Stephen a second look.

There'd been a fire yesterday, hadn't there? Inside the Keep, where darkspawn hadn't penetrated. Cullen bites his tongue to keep from asking, because it would only make Stephen more agitated. But Stephen takes a shaky breath. "Are we going to die?"

His eyes are large and painfully seeking. _No, of course not_ dies in Cullen's throat unsaid as the low sounds of the men nearby fall away, all of them within earshot going silent, waiting for Cullen's word.

_Probably_ might be the most honest answer, but he can't say that to Stephen. "No. We're going to defend our home," Cullen forces out at last, putting a hand on Stephen's shoulder and watching his hopes stop sinking by the word. "All of us."

"Even me?"

"If it comes to it," Cullen allows. _Maker, don't let it come to it_. "Even you. But let us do what we can, first."

Stephen sniffles gravely. "I'll go get my sword."

Cullen rubs his tired eyes as Stephen marches off. He would pray, if he could, but though the impulse is there the words won't come. It devolves in his head into a mindless brokenhearted _please_ that repeats itself with every throb of his pulse.

"If I had known what would be here when I came, I'd have brought the army," Alistair offers with worn-thin humor.

"I wish you had," Cullen admits.

"Should have brought it for a wedding present, at least. Therrin likes armies." But his humor dies entirely and he looks ill at ease in the chair, burdened by more than exhaustion and despair. "I hope she's made it."

Cullen can't answer. What little information they have isn't good. From the top of Vigil's tallest tower, he'd caught a glimpse of smoke rising from the embattled city. The looming specter of loss is too painful to dwell on, and so Cullen forces himself to focus on the task at hand: one thing at a time, one patch of ground to defend and then the next.

Stephen is jogging back with his wooden sword by the time the squad leader comes running, deep lines of grime on his face as he pulls to a halt by Cullen. "Another assault, my lord," he pants, choking as though he can't quite get his breath. "The darkspawn have breached the inner courtyard."

The pit of Cullen's stomach drops. "Rally what men you can. We'll stop them."

"Yes, my lord," the soldier breathes before sprinting off, armor clinking down the hallway as Cullen heaves to his feet.

"My lord," Alistair repeats, almost to himself.

Cullen does up the buckles and fastenings of his armor as fast as possible, Stephen handing him each of the pieces he can lift, one after another. "It'll pass. They know about Therrin. They'll fall out of the habit soon enough."

Alistair doesn't give any sign of having heard.

"Here," Stephen says at last, Cullen's helmet held up in both his hands, face awash with a terrible fear and an equally terrible belief. Cullen pulls the helmet down over his face, ignoring the moment's claustrophobia, heading to where the men are waiting on him to lead the charge.

 

-oOo-

Therrin doesn't know how many hours pass in the battle at Amaranthine. When the second wave of darkspawn hits they come in force, through tunnels in the ground, over the nearby fields, and the twilight haze of smoke and ash over the city makes the passage of time impossible to determine. One skirmish bleeds into the next in a near-unending line, with barely a break in the fighting for a mouthful of water and lyrium before the next charge comes.

Each fight only serves to make her dig in more grimly.

Between one fight and the next, they lose Nathaniel.

It's one of the fiercer battles, and at the end of it the Wardens have tracked all the way out the city gates, routing the ogres who'd tried to charge through their line through blunt force. Therrin doubles over gasping, and glances over her shoulder for Nathaniel, but he isn't there.

For a moment it's Zevran all over again, that strange crushed feeling of absence where someone ought to be. He can't have fallen—she searches the bodies on the ground, even the ones that are scarcely recognizable as human—but no, he's not among the casualties, and no one reports seeing him when she asks. It's almost as though he's disappeared.

Therrin looks out at the smoking city, strangely bereft, almost enough to pierce the iron wall of determination she'd built up in her mind. But there isn't time to wonder. Every spare moment has to be put to use, if not fighting then healing the wounded, searching for survivors, clearing wreckage to make way.

Their numbers are dwindling. There were only so many soldiers in the first place (and thank the Maker Cullen had trained them, or else Amaranthine might be utterly lost already) but their ranks are getting thin, too many dead and too many wounded, and with Nathaniel missing she feels the gaps in their numbers all too painfully.

It's a surprise, then, when Ser Rylien comes to fight. With a blizzard roaring around her dropping the grunts by fives and tens, Therrin thinks she's hallucinating—the outline of templar armor is one she knows all too well, it seems a vision dredged up from some desperate buried wish—but Rylien trudges through Therrin's ice storm as it fades, squinting against the sleet, her hair silvered with snow and ash. "They're spellcasters?" she shouts over the noise.

"What?" So she isn't a hallucination. "Get back to the Chantry!"

Rylien makes an impatient noise as she draws closer, brow furrowed in determination. "The darkspawn. They're casting spells, aren't they?"

"The emissaries, yes," Therrin admits, temper sharp and getting sharper.

"Right," Rylien says, as though that settles everything, and she gives a quick grim nod and hurries toward the front lines like a one-woman battering ram.

_Templars_, Therrin thinks in total exasperation, and then there isn't time for thinking at all.

It's hours yet of fighting before they begin to gain the upper hand—but they do, at last, alley by alley, one darkspawn at a time—and by nightfall the battle presses at the city gates, and then beyond. With Justice on one side and Oghren on the other, Therrin orders one final push, routing the darkspawn back to the road by moonlight and spell-light until something breaks in their ranks that she can't make out and they're running, every one of the darkspawn, retreating in a blind terror as fast from Amaranthine as they can flee.

It's almost too beautiful a sight to be true. "Dog," Therrin shouts as the cheer goes up, the exhausted soldiers not too far gone to celebrate victory. "Here!"

Dog gallops back to her side, panting and sticky all over with blood. They are running!

"But you don't have to chase them," Therrin says, sitting down hard in the dust of the road, too dizzy and sick with exertion to stand anymore.

News of the darkspawn retreat sweeps like a wildfire through the city, the cheer getting louder and farther away, growing like a tide of sound to echo within the city walls. As the townsfolk begin to emerge—from the Chantry, from homes mercifully untouched by darkspawn, from a thousand hiding places—the sound only grows, people venturing out to the city gates to cheer.

_For the Wardens! To the Guard! Maker bless you, my lady!_

"My lady," Therrin breathes to herself, scratching Dog's ears as he tries to wriggle into her lap. "Dog, I think I'm finally getting the hang of this."

"You did good," Oghren offers quietly, leaning on his axe. He jerks his head toward the celebrating soldiers, toward families reuniting, a roar of incredulous joy _we made it, we made it_.

Therrin tries to smile in response, but can't quite make it. It's an odd sort of pain to have him back, steady and sober and ever at her side through the long hours of battle. But when she can't come up with a response he only holds a hand out. She takes it and lets him help haul her upright, holding onto him just a second longer than necessary.

He nods, understanding, and she supposes words would be redundant.

"It isn't over," Justice reminds them. Of everyone in Amaranthine, Justice seems to be the only one untouched by the relief of victory. "The darkspawn messenger spoke of the Mother. We must finish this."

"And we will," Therrin says, distracted by the horizon as the haze begins to clear, by the memory of distant smoke rising some miles away. "But—"

The sight of an oxcart snags her attention and she runs from the Wardens without explanation to flag him down. _We'll pay you royally if you take us to Vigil's Keep as fast as you can_, she tries to promise, heart in her throat, but the cart-driver waves this away. His lanky half-grown daughter fidgets on the seat beside him, fit to bursting at the sight of the Wardens. "Everyone knows what you did for us, my lady," he says, drawing Therrin's offer up short. "I wouldn't dream of charging you, not after all that."

It's only moments before the remaining Wardens can pile in the oxcart and it sets to rolling, swaying and jostling down the road. "Everyone," Therrin echoes doubtfully, and the cart-driver's daughter spills the tale with all excitement: of how the guard had tried to burn the city and Therrin had stopped them, of her wedding interrupted and her betrothed back at Vigil's Keep and—

"Wait," Therrin cuts in, on one of the rare occasions the girl stops for breath. "How do you know all this?"

"The lady at the Chantry told me." The girl's eyes fairly glow. "Everyone in Amaranthine was talking about what a hero you are. My lady," she finishes hastily, as though she'd curtsy sitting down if she could.

"Maker." Therrin stares at her hands, disbelieving and still dizzy as the cart rolls on toward Vigil's Keep, not sure of what to say.


	39. Joining

At the end, there's nothing left to lose.

The darkspawn take each of the courtyards in turn, shrieks tunneling belowground and flooding into the spaces one by one, tripping open gates to allow the ogres and hurlocks passage until they hammer at the doors of the Keep itself.

Inside Vigil's halls, it's eerily silent. The thunder and roar of the darkspawn seems muffled by the stone, deceptively distant, and Cullen and Alistair and what soldiers remain gather in Vigil's main hall, listening to the inevitable as it pounds at their doorstep.

Cullen feels the gaze of the men as he goes about organizing what he can, trying without success to push back on the sense of utter futility. They trade out worn equipment for armor and swords in better condition—there are more suits of armor than men to fill them now, more swords than hands to hold them—and everyone too young or old or weak to wield a blade is sequestered away in the deepest part of the Keep.

It will only stave off the inevitable for a few minutes, at best. When the main hall falls, the rest of Vigil will be lost entirely.

Cullen would have expected to feel more resigned, facing the end. The grim numbness of hours before had evaporated with the last shreds of his hopes; in its place is a slow-simmering anger, fueling him beyond exhaustion. They'd done everything they could, everything, and it all amounts to nothing in the end. The lives lost had only delayed the darkspawn's arrival at Vigil's main door, the hours of relentless, soul-crushing battle, stepping over the bodies of men he'd known, men he'd trained, innocents who had been trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time, all for nothing.

They had bought time with blood, and now both had run out.

No, Cullen thinks tiredly, trying to rescue what fragment of hope might remain. But it's little use. Images flicker in his mind—five Wardens against an army, of Therrin dead on some scorched Amaranthine street, of Stephen huddled with the other children in the darkness, waiting for the darkspawn to find them—each vision too terrible to stop and too probable to be denied.

The pounding on Vigil's doors organizes, becoming rhythmic and steady. Beside him, Alistair tenses even further. "Battering ram?"

"Or a determined ogre." Cullen watches the doors tremble and jerk with every blow.

Alistair grips his sword tighter. "Right."

He should say something, Cullen thinks dully. At times like these there were supposed to be speeches, goodbyes. But his throat feels thick and his head empty, and nothing comes. He nods instead, trying to steady himself for the last fight of his life, waiting for the door to give way, for darkspawn to pour into the keep like a flood of death and end it all.

Instead, the ramming at the door stops, all at once.

Cullen waits long tense seconds for the noise to resume, watching the men in formation shift nervously at the unexpected development. But the battering doesn't start again. Instead the roar of the darkspawn seems to fade, drifting away as though a gale had carried them all off, or as though they'd been distracted by something else in the opposite direction.

Almost as soon as Cullen registers the thought an upwelling of magic flares like a beacon at the very edge of his senses, faint but achingly familiar, cutting through the shadows of exhaustion and despair and down to the heart of him where it glows like the sun. He swallows around the thickness in his throat, almost too stunned to believe it. "They're back. The Wardens."

Alistair's brows draw together in concentration as he tries to confirm it for himself. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," Cullen manages, relief so strong it's painful. "It's her." He would know the feel of that magic anywhere, terrible in its immensity and ferocious in purpose, luring the darkspawn away from Vigil's doors to fight. _Five Wardens against an army_, he thinks, and says, "We have to get out there."

"Then let's go," Alistair says, and Cullen barely has time to think that the king should stay indoors and out of the battle, but it's no use. The king and Cullen and every soldier left to the Vigil rushes out the warped-in doors, racing down the blood-soaked steps into the fight.

-oOo-

The battle for Vigil's Keep is a hurricane of noise, the howl and roar of darkspawn, the metallic ring of weapons and armor, the crackling of a hundred fires and the hiss of spells. Therrin darts from cover to cover—the fallen body of an ogre, an upturned burning cart—only barely cautious, almost too furious and overwhelmed to care about safety at all. Vigil itself looms ahead like a mountain black-on-black in the night, and though Therrin strains to catch a flicker of light or some sign of life the darkspawn make it impossible to concentrate on anything but fighting for more than a second at a time.

With an immensity of magic drawn in like a breath she can feel the battlefield like a map in her brain, cutting through the chaos. She can sense Sigrun's harrying strikes from the shadows, Dog close by, can sense but not see Justice at one side, Oghren at the other, so attuned to battle that they scythe their way through the darkspawn before them. Hurlocks tumble and roll like dice, flattened by spell-winds; before they can recover Dog is upon them. Ogres drawn by the flicker-light of spells come charging in only to find themselves trapped in a circle of Wardens, of biting steel and teeth and magic.

A thousand afternoons of practice at the Circle Tower had been nothing like preparation for this, not with enchanters' endless reminders of _calm, be calm, control yourself and focus_. Rage is a far better fuel, an endless fire, feeding a terrible clarity to every precise and pitiless spell. One darkspawn at a time, five darkspawn at a time, they fall and fall and keep falling. Therrin twists the nexus of a spell at the last second down an ogre's throat, forcing it to swallow flame. She can feel every twitch and withering of its corrupted heart as it burns, feel its blood as it boils. It gives a last thwarted bellow and Dog tears out its smoking throat as it collapses.

"Good Dog," she breathes and he's off again, biting up through the thigh of an emissary, crushing bone and veins and leaving it to die as he turns to the next.

There seems an endless line of _nexts_.

The darkspawn only grow more frenzied as the battle wears on, what little caution they possessed splintering as they rush to attack. Abandoned shields litter the pathways as the hurlocks charge forth in berserker furies. Shrieks scream into the night as their strikes go wide, as Sigrun's axe finds the tender unprotected flesh at their sides. Genlocks impale themselves on Therrin's defensive shards of ice, lunging forward blindly, mad, all of them mad.

Sometime in the night the wind picks up, blowing away the heavy smoke, clearing the air just enough for moonlight to reveal a glimmer of silver armor up the pathway, and at the sight of it Therrin's rage shatters in an instant.

The glimpse doesn't last even a second before the darkspawn flood the empty spaces where their kind had already fallen, wading through blood and flesh and twisted metal to attack in single-minded savagery. But up ahead she can hear battle-cries, human voices, none of them familiar, and just as she's straining to sense them an arrow streaks past close enough to snag at her hair and an all-too-familiar hand seizes the robe at her shoulder and yanks her down into cover. "I thought we'd discussed this," Alistair puffs out, grinning like a maniac. "Come on."

"Wh—" But there isn't time to be surprised, not if she wants to live to see the end of this, and when he hurtles down the pathway in a charge of momentum and metal she follows, throwing spouts of flame in their wake to discourage what darkspawn try to break and follow. "How many of you?"

"About thirty at last count," Alistair answers, wiping away a trail of sweat that streaks through the grime at his cheekbone.

_"Thirty?"_ There'd been a couple hundred soldiers when she'd left …

"Cullen's alive," he says quickly, and the desperate downward plunge of her hope levels out before it crashes entirely. "Or was. Is," he corrects hurriedly, tongue-tied and youngish for an instant before he jerks his head at the battlefield. "How do you want to do this?"

"How fresh are you?"

"Not." He shakes his head, peering out from cover for a quick second and coming back dissatisfied. "It's been easier since you arrived but everyone's on their last legs. You?"

"We've got to finish this," Therrin says by way of answer. "Quickly."

"Any ideas?"

Therrin reaches out, a quick seeking edge of magic. There are tunnels underground by the dozen, she could collapse them beneath the darkspawn's feet… no, it would likely bring Vigil's walls down too. The tunnels need filled, not broken in. "No good ones."

Alistair releases a loud breath. "Right." He glances again at the battlefield. "You take one side, I take the other, meet up in the middle?"

"It's as good as anything," Therrin agrees unhappily, but there's no time to dwell on it because Alistair races from cover back to the fight, disappearing into the chaos.

But it works, as simple as it is—these darkspawn are too frenzied for strategy—and once Therrin rallies her Wardens they press in hard for the Keep. The battle is finite, she reminds herself, the darkspawn here are finite, these that fall are that many more that will never fight again. Each crunch of Oghren's axe brings them closer to the end, each determined blow of Justice's blade, each reaving spell. Her magic comes slower and slower and she's out of lyrium; this has to end and quickly_._

And then the last ogre falls, the screams of the last pocket of shrieks echoing eerily off Vigil's walls, and something catches her by the arm.

Therrin whirls, too on edge for balance, a defensive spell in one hand that fades under a familiar oppositional push of will. She squints into the dark, trying to see through the eye-slit of the helmed man holding her. "Cullen?"

Cullen drags off his helm, wild-looking and filthy, but Therrin only gets a split-second look at him before she's crushed against his breastplate and relief overwhelms her with the force of a falling mountain. "_Maker_," she hears him repeat, again and again as his knees buckle and they kneel gracelessly together in the dust, shocked numb and dazed as the last darkspawn falls.

The Taint goes quiet in her veins, a blessed empty silence, and Therrin clenches her eyes shut as though she could keep back the tears that sting hot at her eyes. "I've got to breathe," she manages, sitting down hard when he releases her.

"I thought the worst." The confession comes from his lips like failure, cracked with exhaustion.

"So did I," she admits, and the entire hanging vastness of her fears seems to break at once, an overpowering tide of worry and bitterness and relief. She launches herself back into his startled embrace and holds on as though the world depends on it.

"My la—ah, Warden-Commander," one of the soldiers corrects. "We didn't think you'd made it."

"I had to wonder there for a while myself," she says distractedly as they stand, hung up on the soldier's correction. Alistair's face is troubled when he comes into view. "Alistair?"

He shakes his head once, tense and exhausted. "I'm sorry."

Trepidation slices cold through her nerves, warring with the giddy high of victory. "For what?" she challenges. "We won. Amaranthine held." _Even if Vigil only barely did._ But Alistair's expression doesn't change. "What, did you have a Landsmeet and forget to invite me?"

She bites it back as soon as it's said, wincing—surely Alistair is the last person in the world to take this out on, whatever's going on can't be as terrible as she fears—but his mouth tightens as though she'd hit far too close to the mark. "Let's get inside the Keep."

Cullen looks grave when he takes her arm again and she falls into step beside him. "What's going on?"

His eyes stray toward Vigil's hall in the distance. "He's taking back the title," Cullen says flatly.

"I see," Therrin manages, though she doesn't see, not really. It hadn't been a full day ago that the citizens of Amaranthine had hailed her, not a handful of days ago that she'd stood in the road of the city and chosen her duty over her heart. "It doesn't matter," she makes herself say. "We won."

But one step inside Vigil's doorway reveals how very close a thing _that_ had been. The wounded are lined up in the space where the throne had been shoved aside, men Therrin doesn't recognize, men wounded beyond identification, with Anders moving slowly between them. Fergus Cousland rouses at the sight of her, elbowing up on the makeshift pallet. "Teyrn Cousland," Therrin manages as she sinks to his side, trying not to look too long at the swollen purple half of his face.

"Warden. You've got good timing, I hear."

Warden. _So it is true_, Therrin thinks with a tumbling feeling, as though every person who says it makes it that much more real. "I try." She tries to smile in response and can't quite make it. "Have you been healed?"

"Your mage did what he could for me," Fergus assures her. "I'll live. I can't tell you how thrilled I was to pass another battle lying up hurt," he grumbles, but the momentary sourness passes quickly. "But I'm told you brought victory to Amaranthine."

"The city…" Not _saved_. "The city will recover." _Not that I'll be here to see it, necessarily, if the new arl isn't thrilled about Wardens at Vigil's Keep._

"I'm glad to hear it," Fergus says. "I was beginning to think I'd never see the end of the darkspawn."

"It isn't over," Therrin admits, registering Cullen's small jerk of surprise beside her as though he'd been struck. "There's a leader among the darkspawn. We have to follow the way his army's gone." As soon as possible, really. She should already be scraping together the resources for the pursuit, but her limbs feel jellied and her head too light, the press of feeling in her chest abnormally forceful. "Teyrn Cousland—"

"You know," Fergus interrupts, not unkindly, "of the two stewards of Amaranthine I've known, I think you were the better one."

Therrin musters a bittersweet smile. "I don't think that's saying much."

"No," he allows, and looks at the space past Therrin's shoulder. "Is Nathaniel…"

"We lost him," she admits, puzzled at the expression that passes over Fergus' face and disappears.

Anders hobbles over, leaning on his staff and a crutch. "You _lost_ Nathaniel?"

"There are casualties in war," Justice says.

Anders glares. "No one asked you."

"Therrin." Alistair makes a not-particularly subtle _get up, get up_ gesture with his fingers, motioning her a little way away from the others. "You too," he adds when Cullen doesn't follow. "He told you?"

About the title, Therrin realizes. When she glances at Cullen his jaw is tight with disgust. "Yes."

Alistair blows out a hard breath. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. You didn't actually get married before the battle, did you?"

The change in subject's almost too abrupt to follow. Therrin frowns. "No. But we've got bigger problems—"

"So do I." Therrin follows his gaze as he watches something on the other side of the hall, another crushing wave of relief at the sight of Stephen and Varel emerging from a pitch-black hall. Stephen pelts over in a hurry and clings to her waist, and as Varel approaches at a more dignified pace Alistair continues, "I didn't plan on being at Amaranthine this long in the first place. I've got to get back to Denerim, and this needs settling before I go."

Therrin stares at him. "What needs settling?"

"Fetch the Chantry sister, please," Alistair orders Varel instead of answering.

"_Alistair_."

But Alistair doesn't seem inclined to explain and from Cullen's wary expression, he's not all up to speed either. "You just _thought_ I couldn't feel you glaring daggers into the back of my head the last few days," Alistair tells Cullen distractedly as the wan-faced sister comes over, bone-tired and leaning on Varel's arm. "I could, you know."

Cullen doesn't deny it.

"Here we are," Alistair says with an odd, forceful cheer. "You came in from the city for the wedding, didn't you?"

The sister hesitates, bewildered. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good. If you don't mind." Alistair makes a go-ahead motion, and Therrin gapes at him, dumbstruck.

"What, _now?_"

"I do have to get back," he says, nearly an apology. "Sister?"

"Ah…" She doesn't let go of Varel's arm. "Here?"

Alistair looks at her a moment, as though she's the one who is slow to catch on, as though this is the most normal thing in the world. "Yes."

"Oh," she breathes, voice faint. "I… very well, Your Majesty. "Do… ah. Colin?"

"Cullen," Cullen supplies, expression guarded and his quick glance over incredulous, _is this really happening?_

Therrin shrugs, utterly perplexed.

"Of course. Do you swear—"

"Yes," Cullen interrupts, voice rough, and Stephen's arms tighten around Therrin's waist, fingers digging into her side. "Yes."

The sister only looks relieved to cut it short, as though standing becomes a riskier gamble by the second. "And Warden—"

"Yes," Therrin swears. Not that she's an expert on weddings, but is this really how it's supposed to go?

The sister's mouth twitches sideways, a reflexive grateful smile, and she leans on Varel all the more. "In the name of Andraste, in the sight of the Maker, let it be so."

And there it is, blessed and done, but there isn't time for more than the beginning of a surge of feeling because Alistair says, "Good." He straightens, a martial resolution to his posture that sets Therrin's alarm bells ringing all the harder. "Cullen. In light of your actions in the recent battle," he continues in a firm carrying voice, all formality and steel, "I declare you the arl of Amaranthine."

Cullen freezes. "What?"

"In case the timing was important," he explains obliquely to Therrin, who only stares. "For anyone in Denerim who'd care that you were already married before he got a title."

"By _five seconds_," Therrin protests, thoughts in a whirl.

"Before is before," he shrugs off. "But you led the charge in a hopeless battle, everyone will know it," he tells Cullen. "It wasn't even your Keep to defend."

"Yes. It was," Cullen protests, looking a bit like he expects to wake up at any moment.

Alistair gives a quiet laugh. "I suppose it was." But he releases another heavy breath, as though the tension had drained from him all at once and it'd been the only thing keeping him going. "I can't stay to fight. I know there's more ahead, but I have to get back to Denerim."

"I know," Therrin says quickly.

Alistair grimaces, apologetic. "I know this isn't the way you wanted this to go…"

"It's fine," she interrupts. And anyway, it's done—Andraste's frilly _knickers_, she's married, and Cullen's the arl, and…

"I'll leave in the morning," Alistair says. "Try to stay out of trouble, will you?" She thinks for a long strange moment that he's going to hug her, but he doesn't. Instead he nods to Cullen. "We'll be seeing you, then."

Cullen nods, stunned, everything below his neck apparently paralyzed.

Alistair gives a rueful half-grimace. "You're not going to thank me for this. You, either," he tells Therrin. "Take care of my men, would you?"

"Wh—"

"During the battle," Alistair interrupts, expression losing all trace of humor. "They were tainted during the battle. I've spoken to them already. They'll undertake the Joining as soon as possible."

_Stop_, Therrin wants to say, and give him a shake for good measure, _stop throwing things at me faster than I can catch them!_ "What if I don't remember the words?" she protests, feeling absurd and straining to make sense of it all.

"Ask Varel," Alistair says, a bit wryly. "He might as well Join too; he knows enough."

Therrin glances over to Varel, still with the sister. "No."

Alistair shrugs. "It's your choice. I've got to lie down before I fall down," he admits. "I guess this is goodbye. For now. Be good."

Therrin strokes Stephen's hair absently when Alistair goes, watching him call his few remaining bodyguards to him.

"Did—" Cullen begins faintly. "Did that really just…" He looks as though he might fall over.

"Happen? I think it did," Therrin manages, rubbing at her eyes. "Congratulations?"

"He must be really desperate." Cullen swallows hard.

Therrin laughs, at that. "I don't think so. Your Grace. Is it Your Grace?"

"_Maker_," Cullen says helplessly and collapses into the nearest chair, which happens to be the pushed-aside throne.

After that the remaining tasks to be seen to divide themselves more or less neatly into order. She takes stock of remaining supplies while Varel prepares the Joining, orders the Wardens in no uncertain terms to rest (they don't have long, and every minute of sleep they can get will help), she takes stock of the dead, the living, trying to add them all up in her mind to get a better sense of their losses.

The price for victory is steep, and even so, they've barely made it.

_And it isn't over_, she reminds herself. _Don't get too relieved_.

There are seventeen men wounded, stricken with the darkspawn taint. Therrin looks them over in the last few seconds before the Joining begins, at the king's left-behind bodyguards, at Cullen's soldiers, at the few servants who had found themselves embattled and hadn't gotten away clean. Too many for introductions. She'll learn their names later, she thinks, the living and the dead. For now there's only one way forward and time ticking away, the chalice in her hands, her husband and son upstairs, safe, and the words of the Joining ready on the tip of her tongue, not forgotten after all.


	40. Northwest

Three hours of sleep isn't anywhere near enough. As Therrin readies for the battle ahead she stifles yawns behind her hand, dimly grateful there isn't anyone but Dog around to see her lurch and stumble from one end of her room to the other scraping together supplies. Dog tracks her with half-open eyes, dozing, his twitching ears the only sign that he's awake at all, but after a few minutes hears something and sits, tail wagging. A second later she hears it too: footsteps approaching, the metal-sounds of armor before Cullen pushes open the door.

Therrin takes in the sight of him in surprise, the full suit of armor, the helm tucked under one arm. "You're not expecting more trouble, are you?"

"No. Not at Vigil." He pushes the door closed, mouth set in a way that makes Therrin wary. "I'm going with you to find the Architect."

"Cullen—"

"Please don't ask me to stay behind again while you go off and fight," he says, voice strained. Every line of his posture is rigid, as though he's come expecting an argument. "I won't do it." He sucks in a breath and continues, only sounding a little rehearsed, "Amaranthine is my concern now more than ever—"

"It isn't necessary anymore," she interrupts, the cool curve of the lyrium bottle in her hand clenched too tightly, and she puts it down deliberately before she can shatter it. "We've got enough Wardens now. You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," he argues, holding up a hand to try and stall her avalanche of protests. "I know what I'm saying. I have to see this done."

Therrin tries to blast the last of the sleep-fog from her brain, scrambling for the right words. "But we have enough Wardens—"

"This isn't just about the Wardens," he admits, still and indomitable as a wall of steel.

"Isn't about the Wardens, except that it's _darkspawn_," she says, slowly. "I don't understand."

Cullen doesn't answer immediately, looking grim. "I have other reasons."

As though that clarifies everything. Therrin rubs at her forehead, frustrated. "You have other reasons to stay now, too."

"This is more important."

Therrin glances at him, exasperated. It's impossible to deny a small perverse twinge of relief at the idea of having him beside her in the battle ahead but they have bigger concerns. _He_ has bigger concerns. But there's no room for compromise in the set of his expression, and Therrin wonders briefly if asking him to stay behind at Vigil while she went to the battle at the city hadn't been pushing him one step too far. "If you're sure," she says, uncomfortably reluctant.

Some of the rigidity eases from the set of his shoulders. "I am, yes."

Therrin swallows any further comment, turning to make room in her pack for more poultices.

-oOo-

It's been years since Nathaniel rode a horse, and even then it hadn't been anything approaching comfortable, but in the aftermath of the battle at Amaranthine speed is all that matters. He keeps his teeth clenched together so he doesn't bite off his tongue by accident, jarred up and down every one of his limbs by the hammering gallop of the leggy beast. He keeps his eyes pinned to the horizon, damning the wasted minutes until the vast grey shape of Vigil's Keep rises from the distance.

The lathered horse blows and snorts when Nathaniel reins it in, its hooves less steady on the uneven stone of the courtyard than they had been on the roads. Blood and scorch marks pattern the trail inward to Vigil's doors, and Nathaniel takes in the sight of piled heaps of corpses in silence.

Most of the bodies are darkspawn. Not all.

He leaves the horse with the first person he sees, pressing the reins into the bewildered man's hands before he heads in through the battered doors of Vigil's hall. There won't be much time to rest, certainly, but perhaps time enough to bolt down a quick meal while the Wardens regroup.

_"Nathaniel?" _

The smell of Vigil's main hall hits Nathaniel all at once, the sickroom odors of medicinal concoctions mingling with the scents of darkspawn and death. He almost doesn't want to look, but the incredulity in Fergus Cousland's voice is too compelling. "Fergus," he manages, nonplussed. The side of his face is swollen-looking and oddly colored as though it'd been bruised, and his mouth's pulled back in a grimace of pain—from the effort of sitting up, perhaps—but somehow in all that he still manages to look bizarrely overjoyed. "What—"

"You're dead," Fergus informs him, trying to smile and only looking ghastly.

"I… no," Nathaniel says carefully, wary that Fergus is more unwell than he looks.

"Your Commander said you'd been lost in the battle," Fergus explains, "Everyone thought—"

"_Lost_, yes," Nathaniel interrupts, alarmed. Fergus' mouth snaps shut so quickly Nathaniel can almost hear his teeth click. "I was cut off from the others. She didn't tell everyone I was dead, did she?"

"Lost," Fergus repeats roughly. "But we all thought…"

Of course. He should've expected something like this. "Where is she?" As edifying (or not) as all this is, it's still a waste of time. He needs to find the others, eat, sleep if he can, and then they need to leave for the battle and finish this before the darkspawn have a chance to regroup.

"Gone with the other Wardens, a couple of hours ago," Fergus answers.

Nathaniel grimaces. He hadn't expected them to move out so quickly, but he can still catch up. The ride over the plains should be quick enough that he can overtake them before too long. "Right."

"_Nathaniel_," Fergus calls when Nathaniel heads for the door, an odd raw edge to his voice.

Nathaniel turns impatiently, jarred out of his thoughts. "What?"

Something changes in Fergus' expression, a strange disappointment that snags at Nathaniel's memory. It had been years ago, a different disappointment, but the same look. Fergus' face was ever too open and honest for his own good. But why _now?_

"If you have something to say to me, be here when I get back," Nathaniel says, watching interest spark briefly in Fergus' eyes, but he doesn't wait for a response because there isn't time. Nathaniel ducks out of the hall instead and jogs to the still-bewildered man holding his horse, slinging a leg over the tired beast and hurtling northwest toward the rest of the Wardens.

-oOo-

The forced march looks to be hard enough on the human Wardens, but for Sigrun it proves to be a particular trial. The plains are flat enough, at least here, but it feels like she's got to walk twice as fast as anyone else just to keep up with the Commander. With the sky cloudless and the sun blazing overhead the windless plain feels like the inside of an oven. Trickles of sweat run down her temples and the insides of her armor, but she grits her teeth together and forces herself faster, trying to stay at the fore with the Commander and Cullen.

There isn't any point in complaining, even in the privacy in her own head. Besides, it will all be over soon anyway.

One way or another.

She wipes at her eyebrows before sweat can drip into her eyes and sting, pulling off her helmet to let her damp hair have a chance to dry. A low roll of thunder comes from far away and Sigrun feels a brief jab of relief—rain would be cooler, at least—but the sky is still cloudless and the sound doesn't fade. Instead it separates into beats, a drumming sound unlike anything she's ever heard before.

Cullen stops at the front of the Wardens, squinting at something Sigrun can't quite see even when she stands on tiptoe to look. "Is that…?"

"_Nathaniel_," the Commander says, incredulous, and Sigrun's stomach and heart wobble abruptly in different directions.

"Are you sure?" Sigrun tries to sense him. The Commander can, probably, because she's been at this longer, and Nathaniel had always been able to do it, but… there it is, a small resonance in her senses she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been looking for it. _A_ Warden, anyway, and unless Anders had sprouted wings and decided to come fight, there's only one person it can be.

The horse slows to a jog when it gets close by, reddish coat dark in long streams of sweat and dust, and Nathaniel slides off one side and takes up the leads at the horse's mouth, approaching with a curious glance at the newest Wardens. "_Lost_, am I?" he asks with what sounds to Sigrun like frustrated amusement. "Thanks for that."

"Nathaniel." The Commander grins broadly for what seems the first time in ages, stepping forward to clasp his hand. "You made it."

"No thanks to the darkspawn," he says with a wry laugh, returning Commander's grin and hand-clasp as though he'd come back from a holiday instead of the grave. "Sigrun." He looks terrible, she thinks, even when he turns his smile on her, but it's the good kind of terrible, which is tired and filthy but alive.

Complicated man or not, the steady presence of him had sort of crept up on her, so sneakily that she hadn't noticed how much he was always there until he wasn't. "What happened?" she asks as his hand closes around hers briefly in greeting, large and dirt-creased. "I thought you were…" The Commander had been reluctant to say _dead_ but Sigrun had all but known.

She'd thought, after Varlan died, that he was the last friend she'd probably ever have. Nathaniel had upended so many of her expectations.

He grins. "It's a bit of a tale, I'm afraid. Though we might have time," he adds, casting an uncertain glance to the dark rise of the hills ahead. "Looks like a bit of a walk."

"It's already been a bit of a walk," Sigrun mutters, mostly to herself, but Nathaniel gives a near-silent laugh at it anyway, taking in the sight of her sweat-damp face.

"I imagine. Here," he says, in a moment of inspiration, holding out the leads to the exhausted horse. "He's yours, if you'd rather ride."

"I don't know how," Sigrun admits, eyeing the horse's long bony legs. "But thanks anyway."

"No time like the present." And then, sweetening the deal, because she'd already told him about the spyglass and he knows how she feels about it, Nathaniel gives a half-grin and says, "On horseback, you can see for _miles_."


	41. Mother and Children

The flat expanse of the Feravel Plains gives way only gradually, the low rolling hills growing rougher as they ascend toward the Mother's lair. At the edge of the Dragonbone Wastes the ground beneath their feet seems to change with unnatural speed, as though the plains had been here first and some giant hand had dropped the rocky bare Wastes on top of them.

Therrin glances at the Tevinter towers in the near distance, and wonders how likely such a history might be. There's something strange about the Wastes, something that hadn't been clear from Varel's maps of the arling. It's difficult to put her finger on, elusive and slippery in her senses but undoubtedly there. Not quite a singular magic, and almost a collective magic but not quite, more than an echo and less than a presence.

It's still more than enough to be unsettling.

By the time they're tripping over the bones of dragons night has fallen, the high yellow moon casting eerie shadows of the slatted ribcages that jut upward from the stone. The feeling here is stronger than it had been in the outskirts of the Wastes, a sensation faintly like the lyrium of Kal'Hirol but without lyrium's particular brand of fire. Beneath it all she can sense the darkspawn like a seething tide, filling up the low places beneath the ground.

"Do you feel that?" she asks Cullen in a low aside.

The moonlight cuts the shadows across his helm into stark relief. "Feel what?"

Not lyrium then at all, and possibly not even residual magic. "Never mind," she says, and gestures their cagey band of Wardens onward.

It is beyond strange to have so many Wardens at her command. It had been most comfortable when it had been only her and Alistair. With the handful of Wardens at Amaranthine it had been fine enough—she'd settled into command, at least—but with a band so small, leading had felt more personal than martial.

With fourteen Grey Wardens at her back, waiting for her order, it feels rather like being at the head of a small army.

It's a definite reassurance, even if a few of the men do look at her askance from time to time as though expecting her to summon demons from thin air, even if Lainor looks as though he'd very much rather go back to the kitchens than be a Warden, if no one would mind.

After this is over, she promises silently. Once the darkspawn are quiet they can rest, can train and… and whatever it is that Grey Wardens do when they aren't trying to stop a Blight or a mad talking darkspawn with armies of mad talking darkspawn at its command. It occurs to her that she hasn't ever been a Grey Warden in peacetime, not actively. At the Circle she had been too determined to put it all behind her, but every moment of her time outside the Tower had been influenced by the looming presence of war in one way or another.

Nathaniel ties the nervous-looking horse to a dragon rib in a secluded hollow, clicking his tongue and giving the horse's nose a stroke. "You'll be fine here. The darkspawn are after other prey."

The horse makes a whickering sound in response.

"Us, probably," Nathaniel says, as though the horse had spoken.

"He'll really be okay?" Sigrun asks, concerned enough to make Therrin frown in surprise.

"He ought to be. The faster we can kill the Architect, the better," he says, and Sigrun nods once, grimly, and keeps her weapons ready.

The darkspawn littering the Wastes are a strange mix of creatures, some of them the keenly intelligent type that speak, shouting at the Wardens as they charge into battle. Others simply roar and charge to their deaths, as frenzied as the darkspawn at Vigil had been and giving no thought to their own survival as they lunge onto swords and into the path of spells.

Both types of darkspawn battle one another with surprising ferocity. Nearby screams and roars rise into the night as the Wardens press down the winding path, beside dragon skulls lit like lanterns, fire dancing from the empty eye sockets, along knobbled bony spines that make bridges across miniature chasms.

This far in, the darkspawn are almost so distracted by the presence of the opposing army that they fail to notice the Wardens slinking in across the Wastes.

The dragon suffers no such distraction. Between one breath and the next the sky seems to erupt and Therrin goes sprawling, the ridge of dragon-backbone she falls on digging up painfully along her own spine, the vast leathery expanse of wings overhead blotting out the stars and moon and leaving the night completely black. She scrambles up, shards of ice coalescing at her fingertips, and watches in surprise as every one of the new Wardens falls to attacking the massive dragon. They sweep swords that look like toys across its tough leathery hide, stabbing it with daggers that seem only needles in comparison with the sheer bulk of its sides, and Therrin snaps from her momentary preoccupation and casts, running backwards in a hurry when the dragon wheels. It roars and the tip of its tail sweeps through the air where she'd been.

She can scarcely hear Dog's barking and the voices of the Wardens over the roars and wingbeats of the dragon, but she _does_ hear a high faraway cry of victory a moment before the dragon screams. Nathaniel runs past, firing, and she sees a bright enchanted arrow lodge in the soft underside of the dragon's throat, neatly disappearing between either side of its jawbone with a flash of electricity. The dragon gives a groan like a falling ship, lurching in place before it collapses in a ground-shaking heap, wings spasming.

Therrin watches the dragon's eyes in the few seconds that the life fades from them until they glaze over, vacant, and Nathaniel gives a rather ragged laugh from beside her, shaking his head and breathing hard. "I always dreamed of doing that," he confesses a bit faintly, looking at the dead dragon. "Only seriously since the Blackmarsh."

"Well done," Therrin manages, wholly impressed and coming up short of anything more eloquent to say.

He flashes a pleased grin, white in the darkness.

Inside Drake's Fall the air is stifling, a dank humid quality to it almost more like a flavor than an odor. The long spiraling stairs are choked with darkspawn, the intelligent kind, many of them mages, but the insect-like clicking of the children echoing off the curved walls indicates they can't be far off.

Cullen shoulders past, intent on the emissaries, and Therrin stands back to summon forth a blizzard into the well of darkspawn below. It's a strange luxury to have so many fighters that she can afford to keep out of the thick of the fight but there isn't time to dwell on it. The Wardens cut a downward path through the darkspawn, the steps going slick with blood and ichor, running down the stone to the unseen depths below.

The whole ruin feels tilted, Therrin can't help but think as they forge their way down to the base of one tower and across a narrow bridge. It feels as though the entirety of the ruin runs down toward a single point. There was supposed to be an insect that built cones to trap its prey, a creature she had read about one long-ago afternoon when she was certain she would never see anything outside the Tower. Now she can't shake the sensation at the conical downward slope of it all that they might be walking down into a similar trap.

Still no sign of the Architect, she thinks as they make their way into the next tower, and then as though the thought itself had summoned him, the awareness of his presence crashes through her veins like a scream. Lyrium-bright walls of magic unfurl into shields across the archways, blocking the Wardens in and up high on the ledge above she can see the Architect emerge, a small shadowed figure at his side. When he speaks the sound seems to come from inside her own skull, too quiet to truly carry across the distance. "I owe you an apology, Commander. When last we met, I intended to explain myself. Fate, however, intervened."

Justice pushes his way roughly through to the front of the nervous Wardens, blade readied, more agitated than she has ever seen him. "Do not listen to this creature. It will attempt to trick you."

"There is no cause for deception," the Architect says, his voice slow, almost dreamy. It prickles along her memory, too like the voices of sloth demons, and her throat goes dry in response. Dog's growling is a low steady snarl beside her, but the Architect ignores him. "I restrained you only to prevent the misunderstanding that occurred with the rest of your order." He hovers in the air for a long moment, greenish flickers of magic bearing him carefully to the ground before them.

It's all the provocation Justice needs. Before Therrin can protest Justice charges ahead, the silver line of his blade flashing blue in reflection of the magical shields holding them inside the tower. Around the Architect, a wall of energy appears, summoned from nothing and deflecting the blow mere inches from his flesh, and in one sickening moment all the air seems to suck inward toward the Architect in a rush, and then the tower erupts in fire.

The shouts of Wardens ring in her ears as the temperature soars, as Therrin desperately floods the chamber with ice to combat the flames as they rain from above. But the Architect gathers a ball of energy and it strikes out with leveling force, reaving every scrap of her mana away and sending her reeling as the Wardens fall on the Architect in a violent swarm. She fumbles for lyrium with nerveless fingers, trying to pick out Cullen in the chaos an instant before his will strikes out at the Architect, and a moment later the warring storms of magic in the tower die with a shriek.

Justice wrenches his blade from the Architect's lifeless body, and everything goes quiet.

So much death and destruction, so many months of pursuit and looming trouble, and all it comes down to is one blade, one body. It seems an unsettlingly inadequate end in comparison with the arling's struggles.

Therrin watches Justice as darkspawn blood pools on the floor, blackish in the dimness. If this was the justice he sought for Kristoff's death, will he disappear back into the Fade? Therrin half-expects him to, but as seconds slide past nothing seems to happen. The skittering claw-sounds of the children grow closer in the quiet, but there is no pull from the Veil, no indication that Justice's time in the mortal world is over.

From the strained, bereft expression on his face, Justice had expected a change as well.

Therrin casts a blanket healing spell across the battered group almost absently and adjusts the pack-strap across her shoulder, shifting its weight. "Let's go." Her own voice seems to echo upward, as though the tower funnels sound strangely. "There's still the Mother to kill."

Justice looks relieved, at that. Therrin wonders grimly if he expects the Mother's death to return him to the Fade, and what they'll do if it doesn't.

-oOo-

The entrance to the Mother's lair is so narrow that they have to squeeze through slowly in single file, narrow enough that Cullen's armor catches on the pulsing growths lining the walls and he has to be yanked through by two of the new Wardens.

The air down here is even more fetid than it had been above, clotting in the back of Therrin's throat like curdled milk and something worse, but the narrow entry gives way to a cavernous grotto, the air thinner if no less foul-smelling. Light filters in from fissures in the stone above to cast the few remaining Tevinter columns in ghostly white, standing out starkly against the rest of the vast grey interior.

At the edge of a long pathway a hulking shape waits, undulating slowly like a sea-plant in a current.

The smell of broodmothers is not the sort of thing one forgets.

But as they approach the middle of the path, it becomes clear that the Mother is unlike any broodmother Therrin has ever seen. At the sight of the Wardens she rises like a snake uncoiling, human-looking enough to be startling and fixing them with her hideously bloodshot eyes. "If it isn't the hero of the hour!" The Mother cackles, a raspy sound. "The slayer of the mighty Father, come to claim a reward!"

"Father?" Sigrun asks faintly at Therrin's elbow, hand over her nose, looking sick.

Justice scowls at the heaving mass of the Mother, lip curled in distaste. "This is the Mother, surely. A—"

"He called himself Architect, but that did not change what he was," the Mother interrupts, swaying dreamily as though borne aloft on waves. "He said he wanted to free us. But all he brought us was silence. Oh, dreadful silence!" Blood-colored tears—or some other fluid, Therrin can't quite tell—trickle out the crusty corners of the Mother's eyes, down dark-red tracks along her face. "But now the Father is gone. The Mother can take her children deep into the earth and care for them, safe and sound."

The Mother hums to herself, a tuneless perversion of a lullaby, long thick tentacles sliding around her midsection like a pair of embracing arms. "But no, _oh_, no. The Mother knows your ways. You will not let her be, not after what she's done."

Something hand-sized and many-legged skitters across one of the Mother's many breasts and disappears into a fold of flesh.

"You… you must die," she croons, almost sweetly, and cackles again like a saw tearing across bone. "But oh, how my children protect me! They will feast!" she shouts in mad triumph, her face splitting into a wide red maw as her jawbone disjoints, a horror of almost-humanity as tree-thick tentacles burst upward from the ground and snake toward the Wardens.

There almost isn't time to sprint out of the way and even so the pain of a heavy tentacle flicking into her side makes Therrin curse as she skids out of reach, weaving together magic before she can think, something deadly. But no, the other Wardens are already running in to fight the Mother at close quarters and one by one they get tossed like children's toys by the tentacles. Therrin scrambles to remember support spells, wards Wynne had used a lifetime ago, _anything_. A relentless chittering echoes weirdly through the cavern a moment before the children arrive in force, their fleshy larvae-like bodies almost pearly in the strange light as they squeeze upward from tubes and hollows.

_Ice_, Therrin thinks, coming short of anything more defensive and pouring ice high along the air to try and freeze the tentacles in place. It doesn't work. It slows them but not enough, and the Wardens are paying the price. She catches a glimpse of Justice and Cullen at the fore and then the Mother rears, blood oozing from a dozen wounds, and she screams.

The noise seems to shake the cavern and send the few fragile cave-supports trembling in place. Even more terrible is the noise that follows, when something—a multitude of somethings, a thousand deafening voices in the darkness—hears, and screams _back_.

The Mother sweeps the Wardens away with a long curved strike of her largest tentacle, convulsing in pain and rage, and in the moment after they stagger to their feet Therrin sees it: a roiling wave of darkspawn and children pouring in from the blackness beyond, a thousands-strong tide of frenzied monstrosities all rushing in at once in the Wardens' direction, unfathomable in scale and beyond hope of fighting.

"What now?" one of the new Wardens shouts desperately. They can't go back, not one at a time through that narrow passage. It _is_ a trap.

"A vent," she says numbly, almost too horrified at the sight of the approaching army to feel anything like fear at all, it's too much, too big to properly sense. There's got to be an air vent, there always is where broodmothers are, but _where?_ "There!" she shouts, pointing to a dark wide niche along the wall where trailing growths stir in the breeze. "Go!"

The Wardens scramble for the exit in a graceless rush of limbs and metal, racing the darkspawn. But it isn't _enough_, she thinks desperately as she looks back. As long as the Mother is alive the darkspawn will never stop coming, and Amaranthine can't possibly survive another attack. "Go!" she shouts again, as though she could make the Wardens hurry faster, and while they flee for safety Therrin hesitates, looking at the few crumbling Tevinter columns high above, at the wide jagged expanse of the rock ceiling.

Could they get out if the cave came down? The vent can't be too long, not if there's a breeze—

Cullen grabs her arm, dragging her along. "Come on!"

She shakes off Cullen's hand, casting another glance to the ceiling. "Go, I have to—"

"No!"

"This has to _stop_," Therrin tells him, months of tension crushing together. It has to end now, it _has_ to end here. "I'm going to bring down the cave." There should be an entire Tevinter tower on top of it, if pattern held, more than enough rock to crush the darkspawn here below, and the Mother has no magic and can't run.

"What?" he demands, only a little muffled behind his helmet.

There isn't time to explain. The darkspawn wave is pouring in too close, too fast, the Mother screaming in a high eerie wail that feels like ice scraping along the insides of Therrin's bones. "Go. I'll catch up. Go!" she shouts desperately and pushes him for good measure, and reluctantly he turns to follow the others out the vent.

Dog barks at her in alarm as she reaches for lyrium with fingers shaking from fear, downing one bottle and then another and that's all the time she dares to waste before she casts. There's no time to be careful, no long minutes of carefully stretching out with feelers of magic, sinking gingerly down through stone and strata to locate the right points to push. With stalactites hanging above like swords waiting to fall and the Mother quivering in malevolent rage, tentacles whipping and contracting, Therrin scrambles for magic, for all of it _now right now_ to finish this.

Magic bursts outward like a new star, an outrush of power and sensation shooting upward into the rock and pulling with all the force she can command, a wide-flung seizing of power that sends the Tevinter columns buckling in place. The lyrium seethes inside her in a feverish hum, the pitch of her magic rises from a shout to a scream and the sheer enormity of the spell batters at her mind like a tempest. It bucks from her control, wild and heedless, and there isn't any way to draw it back. The edges of her perception go vast-immense-infinite in a deafening roar and lights flash and die in her overloaded senses.

She hears the Mother's shriek go higher and then abruptly silent as a boulder from above drives down through the Mother's head and torso, can sense the rest of her convulse and die, tentacles going limp and falling like severed entrails to the stone as the cavern shakes.

But there's no time to be relieved. Therrin can scarcely see and can't hold on to the roaring wild spell as it whirls out of her grasp and out, everywhere, devouring her senses as the Veil gives way. In one agonizing moment some fragile mooring in her brain seems to _snap_ and the Fade rushes up like a wall of water to take her a second before Cullen's desperate strike shears across her brain like a scythe.

The cavern heaves and begins to crumble, the floor quaking violently as Therrin falls to her hands and knees, shattered. She feels a brief, crushing pain, and then she feels nothing.


	42. Epilogue

When Therrin cracks her eyes open the world is blurred and dim, flicker-lights wavering along the inside of her skull in circling dizzy-sick trails, a red tide of pain hitting with staggering force as soon as consciousness pulls her in. At the same instant, magic leaks out through her skin, gathering formlessly in the absence of any ability to stop it. Panicked, Therrin tries to shut out the heavy press of the Fade and can't.

Anders frowns at her from above, escaped hairs from his disheveled ponytail hanging down around his face. _How did _you_ get here?_ she wants to demand, and _make it stop_, but she can't work her tongue. He reaches down a hand, glowing blue with magic, and the world goes dark.

-oOo-

"Let's try this again," he says and it draws her out of a terrible nightmare, the wisp-visions of tentacles and fire receding into the mists of memory even as she tries to scramble to catch up to reality. But being awake hurts. One side of her body is a tangled raw swath of pain from her ribs to her hip and when she breathes it grows a thousand times worse. "You'll thank me later for trying to fix your head first," Anders informs her grimly, and for some reason it's the _trying to_ in all that that's most frightening, because if _Anders_ thinks he's in over his head the situation is grim indeed.

Panic claws upward at her throat and mana flares like a bonfire inside her, spilling up and out beyond control and something is horribly _wrong_. "Contain it," Anders says, voice sharp and worried as he wavers and spins through her field of vision. "You've _got_ to keep your magic contained or you risk undoing everything I've managed."

"I'm _trying_," Therrin croaks angrily, but anger just makes it worse. Unfocused magic buffets her from the inside out and crackles through the air around them like Fade-fires, too much to rein in and impossible to stop. Anders' eyebrows shoot up in alarm, and before she can tell him no he reaches down again, touches her forehead, and wrenches her away from the waking world.

-oOo-

"If you do that again I'm going to demote you," Therrin grits out the next time she comes awake. Irritation makes magic bubble up in hot messy eagerness but she doesn't hurt half as much. She can breathe again without feeling as though her lungs are trying to slice themselves open on her ribs and the relief of it is almost enough to make her anger bleed away.

"Nice. Sit up. _Slowly_," Anders orders, mouth quirked in a sardonic half-smile. That's a good sign, isn't it? He wouldn't be smiling if she was going to die.

Probably.

Therrin elbows up as carefully as possible, dizziness making the simple motion a trial. The bed seems to drop out from beneath her and send her tumbling even though it doesn't move, and she clamps her teeth together and tries to breathe slowly, waiting for the sensation to pass.

It doesn't. It ebbs a little, but the room seems to spin, Anders with it, and Therrin squeezes her eyes shut tight so she doesn't have to look.

"Better," Anders says appraisingly, reaching out with fine tendrils of magic.

Therrin tries to sift through her own disorientation, looking for anything to hold onto amid the fragments of thoughts wheeling through her head. "Where's Cullen?"

"Upstairs, I think. And on the other side of a barred door, for the moment, and _you're_ going to have to talk him out of strangling us both because I wash my hands of it. You're at Vigil," he informs her, and she cracks her eyes open long enough to take in the familiar deep-grey walls. An unexpected surge of emotion brings magic with it, spilling over out of control_._

"Stop that!" Anders orders.

"How?" she demands in alarm, scrambling for deep breaths, for anything to rein in her magic.

"However you can. Think tranquil thoughts. _Anything_," he says, looking ruffled.

Therrin concentrates and tries to make herself a blank, reaching for old deeply-ingrained children's chants, the nonsense rhymes they used to teach the littlest apprentices to calm themselves down. "What's wrong with me?" she manages when she finally feels able to speak without bursting into unwilling spells, the effort of maintaining even this slim thread of control distressingly difficult.

"I'm not entirely sure," Anders confesses. Therrin's stomach heaves in response, a blistering fear exploding along her insides that she hurries to smother. "You took a blow… here," he says with a bare touch of his fingertips to a spot against her skull. "It's well on its way to healing. You're dizzy, aren't you?"

"What's wrong with my _magic?_"

Anders doesn't answer right away, sucking in a breath. "You know when a door isn't a door?"

Therrin scowls, in no mood for riddles. "What?"

"When it's ajar," Anders says sourly, and she opens her eyes enough to glare at him. "Your connection to the Fade has gone completely wrong, as best as I can tell."

"Wrong," Therrin echoes, tenuous control slipping dangerously.

"It's not a _precise_ diagnosis," he grumbles, "no, _don't_ get try and up. Honestly." He returns her dissatisfied glare, mouth tight. "Look, I've never seen anything quite like this, all right? You can't hiss and spit at me if you go jump off the odd edge of the map and come back _wrong_. It's…"

"Open," Therrin finishes miserably. It feels as if a gateway in her head has been propped open and she can't close it.

"Yes," Anders says quickly, "but it _does_ look to be getting better. It's… less likely than I thought before that you'll be stuck this way forever."

But this on its own is bad enough, and worse when she thinks about it. She feels ready to fall even perfectly still, dizziness overpowering thought as she flounders to control what had been second nature since she was six years old. _Small_, she thinks, start _small_. She makes herself take one slow breath and then another, holding on to one moment and then the next. "Tell me," she begins, and fumbles for the right kind of distraction, "tell me what happened."

Anders sighs but launches into the tale without complaint, and Therrin curls on her side and squeezes her eyes closed, trying to be still inside and out and holding onto the thread of his voice to keep the bubbling panic at bay. He doesn't seem in much of a mood for details but sketches out what he'd heard in broad strokes: the Architect's death and then the Mother's, Nathaniel's predawn gallop with Therrin back to Vigil (that Therrin remembers not a single second of, even when she tries), something about a dragon.

"Nathaniel's not dead, then," she murmurs against the sheet. She had dreamed he was dead.

"No, though he had everyone fooled there for a while," Anders says, a grin coming through in his voice. "I didn't even get to the best part, you know. He's a hero in Amaranthine. It's true," he laughs at her expression. "He led some fifty people out of burning buildings to safety before he ran off after you lot."

Therrin cracks one eye open. "Nathaniel told you that."

"No, of course not. The constable sent men to Vigil after. _They_ couldn't shut up about it. I think Nathaniel wishes they would." His smile dims a fraction as though he remembers belatedly that this is a sickroom and not a tavern-table chat. "Sleep," he says, pushing up from his chair. Therrin closes her eyes again quickly to dispel the sight of him teetering off-balance. "We've got some experiments to try once you've rested."

"Wonderful," Therrin mutters, wincing in anticipation of another press of magic to force her into unconsciousness, but Anders only leaves her in peace.

-oOo-

Emotional distress is a particularly nasty trigger for the loss of her magical control, Anders decides over the course of the next few days. From moment to moment Therrin is more or less able to keep her newly-wayward magic inside her own skin, though some moments are considerably to the _less_ side of that spectrum, and Anders removes almost everything flammable in a hurry. But these first fragile days are crucial to healing, he says, and they require an absolute minimum of anything to cause a significant emotional response. No worrying. No more nightmares, as much as they can be avoided.

No visitors.

"_Especially_ Cullen," Anders insists when she asks. "Do you want to burn down Vigil's Keep in some sort of feelings-induced arcane _fit?"_

"No," Therrin concedes, dampening her irritation. The title of Commander doesn't seem to matter one whit to Anders (had it ever?), and he mutters to himself as he goes, appalled that she'd asked.

He does relent a little, the next day.

Therrin sits at the mostly-bare table with a quill in one hand, gripping the table-edge with the other in a bid to stay upright. Vertigo threatens to send her keeling over to the floor but she's determined to get past this—Anders had said this would be getting better any time now—and very deliberately she continues scrawling out a letter. Her usual neat script slants and blotches across the vellum, the letters swirling and rearranging themselves before her eyes and making her sick.

An unobtrusive knock at the door startles her. It can't be Anders. He doesn't know _how_ to knock. "Come in."

Varel appears in the wedge of the opening door a second before Dog pushes it open entirely and hurtles through, and the surge of joy at the sight of him sends her magic surging in kind. It manifests itself as a small hollow ball of fire she hurriedly puts out, tamping down the smoldering edge of the newly-scorched, completely hopeless letter, struggling for calm. "Dog," she manages as he plants himself at her feet and puts his head in her lap. He closes his eyes in quiet canine elation and she buries her fingers into his coarse warm fur. "Hello, Varel," she says belatedly, glancing up.

He offers a slight smile. "Commander. It's good to see you awake."

He had been there when Nathaniel had brought her in, probably; Therrin doesn't remember. "It's…" _Terrifying. Maddening_. "Better," she says at last, settling for the most optimistic of truths. Dog licks her hands, looking as though he could wriggle out of his skin but won't. Someone must have told him firmly to behave.

"Anders indicated you might do for a little company," Varel says easily, glancing at the wreck of her letter. "Unless you're busy—"

"No," Therrin says, too quickly. "I was just…" She gestures at the vellum in distaste. "Nothing important."

_Desperately_ important. If there is any precedent in the Tower's records she needs to know and the sooner the better, but she can't even properly write a letter.

Varel nods slowly, thinking for a moment before he retrieves a chair from the far wall. "May I?" he asks, indicating the quill and ink. Therrin nods, holding Dog tighter. He sighs against her arm, tail wagging like the world's fastest pendulum but every other inch of him still.

"To… Dop—" Varel begins uncertainly, pulling still-fresh vellum from the bottom of the stack.

"Dagna," Therrin corrects roughly, forcing down another wild upswell of feeling before it can carry her away. "To Dagna," she says, steadier, as Varel begins to write for her. "At the Circle Tower."

-oOo-

"You know, I think I've almost got this," Anders says a few days later, shuffling a few pages of notes and pausing to scribble something in a margin. "Or at least it's all completely strange, but an internally consistent sort of strange. No lyrium," he says meaningfully, glancing over the edge of the vellum.

Therrin blinks, not understanding. "Sorry?"

"No lyrium exposure. And nothing enchanted. Nothing that might augment your mana pool."

"Until when?" Therrin asks, startled. Not that she wants any lyrium just now, but she already feels naked enough without her robes and staff.

"Until I say so," Anders says, his eyebrows drawing together as he frowns. "Weeks, at least, if everything goes well. And don't tell me you need it because you don't. If you weren't the _first_ person in the world I hear ought to know better I'd say you were flirting with an addiction to the stuff." He gives her a cagey look as though he suspects it anyway. "Not a drop."

"Fine."

"Not a grain."

"Anders," she chides, but he only raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Fine. No lyrium. I understand."

"Good." He skims his notes, biting the inside of his cheek as he thinks. "We've been over the nightmares."

"Yes." A drop of potion to discourage dreaming, every night, she already knows.

"Hmm." He comes to the end of his notes. There has to be more to it than that; he's got pages of scribbles and it's got to be more than just _no lyrium_. He gives her a gauging look, not entirely satisfied. "How are you feeling?"

"In general?"

"Now, specifically." She tries to peek over the edge of his notes but he snatches them away. "Cheating. You couldn't make sense of them anyway. If you're that nosy, we can assume you're steady enough for the moment?"

"I'm not—" He smirks faintly and she realizes a second too late that she's being baited. "I'm fine. Now, specifically."

"Good," he says, putting aside his papers and leaning in his chair, balancing it on its back two legs. "I came across a little tidbit of information the other day you might be interested in knowing. Fascinating, the things you learn when you're mucking around someone's insides trying to put them back together."

-oOo-

It is a full day after that before Therrin's steady enough to give the order. "I'm not asking," she warns Anders, cutting across his protests. "Get them. Now. Please," she remembers at the last second.

Anders' mouth gets tight and before he goes he mumbles something under his breath that Therrin suspects she wouldn't have wanted to hear anyway, but he does go. Ser Pounce-a-lot glares balefully at her from his place on Anders' shoulder.

Not quite five minutes later, the door swings open near-silently, and at the sight of Cullen Therrin's feelings explode almost beyond what her magic can bear. She clenches her hands together until her fingers hurt, trying to clamp down on her magic and emotions both. "I'm not going to be able to talk much," she cautions, her throat unexpectedly raw as she tries to level out the peaks and trenches of emotion into something less dangerous. Control, control, it was never this hard even as a _child_.

Cullen gives a grave, small nod. "Anders said as much." He crosses the distance and sits beside her on the edge of the bed with utmost care, as though one wrong breath could break her. He doesn't try to talk any more than that, and it's a mercy. She can hardly look at him and yet at the same time can't stop. Though his eyes seem to devour the sight of her he sits perfectly still, the picture of self-contained discipline with his hands resting on top of his thighs. She pulls one of them over, holding it between her hands, tightening her fingers around his.

Cullen doesn't make a sound. She wishes fervently that she could trust herself to speak without erupting into uncontrolled magic—Maker knows they need to talk—but she can't risk it, infinitely tempting as it is to blurt out everything in her heart. She settles for shifting, for leaning back into bed and pulling him along, resting comfortably along the length of his side when he puts an arm around her carefully.

It's almost too much. Therrin squeezes her eyes shut against his shirt and holds on, restraining errant surges of magic. The silence seems full—of rebellious flares of feeling, of all the words she wants to say—and she keeps quiet, buoyed by the thought that this is progress, lulled by the feel of his hand rubbing her arm in soothing lines, by the drum of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

She hardly notices the minutes trickling past, but when enough time has gone by and nothing ignites Cullen makes some small gesture, and Therrin raises her head to see Stephen, lip bitten red, slinking in from the doorway and across the floor. The bed dips only a little when he crawls over Cullen and Therrin both, settling onto the blankets on her other side. She slips an arm around him and he curls like a vine against her, winding his arms around her tight, and he doesn't say a word but his shoulders shake, and the side of her robes goes damp where his face presses into them.

Therrin runs her fingers through his hair, catching on tiny invisible tangles. Stephen rubs his face against her side and then too late remembers that she isn't a handkerchief, and tries to wipe his runny nose on the back of his arm without getting caught. But their eyes meet and he looks so sheepish and miserable that a laugh bubbles up in her throat all unexpected. "We're a _mess_," Therrin says, half-despairing, and at that Stephen bursts into hiccupping giggles he can't quite stifle, shaking them all.

They're contagious; Therrin grins back at him.

"Hush, you two," Cullen chides, sounding far too relieved to be reprimanding anyone. "We're under orders." There's a strain in his face, the marks of old worries, new worries, of too much care and too little sleep. Therrin stretches to plant a quick apologetic kiss on his cheek before settling back down against him, and Stephen crawls up her side and rests his head against her cheek, his curls tickling her nose, and for a moment there doesn't feel like anything wrong in the world.

-oOo-

"Two hundred eleven," Cullen says, not even breathing hard. "Two hundred twelve."

"Can we stop?" Therrin gasps. Sweat rolls down her spine in the heat of the day, making her dress cling to her back.

"We're almost there." But Cullen stops in the stairwell anyway, waiting for her to catch her breath. She could _strangle_ Anders just now. It had been his idea to climb steps to regain her strength once she could. Though perhaps he hadn't meant _go count all the stairs in Vigil's Keep_. That had been Cullen's whim, and it's a good thing he's keeping count because she's lost track three times already. "Are you dizzy?" he asks, and she nods, leaning against the wall as though she could leech coolness from the Keep itself.

"We could head back down."

"No. I could… use the air, up at the top. I just need a minute," she admits, knees trembling and the left side of her ribs stinging fiercely with every breath.

It is two hundred and fifty stairs to the top of Vigil's highest tower. She sinks to the floor of the overlook when they make it, trying to press herself into the stone. From here it's difficult to avoid the brand-new feeling of unsteadiness, of being ready to fall—into the open air, into the Fade that waits only scarcely on the other side of a thought—like a bird perched high in an open aerie, on the cusp of falling into flight. "Promise me," she manages, holding a shaking hand over her eyes to keep off the glare of the sun. "Promise me someday we'll live in a place with no stairs."

He laughs softly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good enough." She heaves a sigh that only reminds her of the ache at her side and sits cross-legged, well away from the edge. Not that she's afraid of heights, exactly. But with her balance still off, the edge of the tower is newly forbidding.

Cullen doesn't show any such hesitation. "I think I can make out the Turnoble place from here," he says, standing at the half-wall barrier with the breeze ruffling his hair.

"Oh, so _that's_ why you wanted to come up here," she teases, a little faintly. "To survey your new domain."

His answering smile is faintly wry. "Not exactly." He retreats from the edge and joins her sitting by the doorway, elbows propped on his knees. "This still feels incredibly strange, you know."

"I know," she reassures him. "It probably will for a while. Did it feel strange for you when I first became the arlessa?"

"At first." Cullen shifts closer and she leans into his side gratefully. Now and again the sky above threatens to wheel around in slow circles, but Cullen is steady.

_At first_, Therrin echoes silently. Maybe it's just this at-first stage that makes it all feels so paralyzingly foreign. Maybe she'll get used to letting go, to thinking of the roles behind her only as skins shed along the way—enchanter of the Circle, Arlessa of Amaranthine—and not as orphaned pieces of herself she couldn't hold onto.

The newly-tenuous barrier in her mind seems to ripple at her momentary distress. Cullen glances over at the feel of it and she clamps down firmly on her wayward feelings before they can spiral out of control again. A half-dozen focusing exercises volunteer themselves from memory, the last of them in Irving's even voice, and the remembered figure of his instruction seems to give shape to the formless effort of her control.

He watches, patient. "Better?"

"Better," she confirms, not trying to nod. A little better every day, when she's lucky, and not usually worse even when she's not. It will take time, is all. "You?"

"I'm fine," he assures her. She can't keep asking, out of some bizarre habit. Everyone keeps asking how she is and it's a reflex to ask in return. "It's cooler up here, at least."

They sit in quiet for long minutes, listening to the wind, content with only that. "Voldrick's working on an estimate," Cullen says at last, "of how much it'll take to repair Vigil."

Therrin makes a face. "Let me guess. It's going to be expensive."

Cullen doesn't quite grimace. "It's Voldrick."

Which says everything, really. But it's a step in the right direction, even if it is a step that will have to be filled with gold. The city is already rebuilding, farmers returning to their lands in the total absence of darkspawn. Vigil's Keep seems to be coming back to life slowly, hiring on refugees, scraping itself back together under Cullen's and Varel's watchful eyes.

As for the Wardens… perhaps it's for the best to be less active than most, just for now. Nathaniel had sent a few of the new recruits to Amaranthine, and when he returns from Highever next month there'll be training, proper mapping of the Deep Roads beneath the keep and city, possibly recruitment.

It's strange to have plans that have little to do with war.

By then she'll be able to spar, she expects. Any eagerness at the thought is only natural boredom talking, she thinks, not any real desire to knock out any misconceptions about mages that might be rattling around the skulls of her new brothers.

Not really.

_Maybe a little_, she concedes privately, grinning briefly at the thought.

"You're smiling," Cullen tells her.

"I am, aren't I? Don't tell Anders."

"Don't worry," he grumbles, half to himself, and Therrin only grins wider.

Better. A little better every day.

"Are you ready to go back down?" he asks, not moving to get up yet. The sunlight glints off his hair and she just looks at him a moment, unwilling to let go of the moment's contentment.

And anyway…

"Actually," she says, the lightness just the tiniest bit forced, "I was hoping to get the chance to talk to you in private." Not that Anders' news hadn't been a shock—_twins, still healthy from what I can tell; have you ever considered __trying to do something by half-measures just to see if it sticks?_—but there hadn't been a good opportunity since he had told her. There have been too many people willing to help, or in Anders' case, interfere in the name of medical research, and the news has been sitting like lead on the tip of her tongue ready to fall off for what feels like ages.

No need to dwell on how she'd counted back in her head, trying to piece it together—to Kal'Hirol, the lyrium and its aftermath—and no need to dwell on her own aggravated worries over what the lyrium had done to the darkspawn birthed in its presence, or to worry just now that the same will hold true for her. Those worries—all of them—will keep.

It does something, Oghren had told her at the temple of Andraste. Bends reality around. Makes things different.

Or it could be lucky chance. Their luck has already changed for the better, hasn't it?

Cullen settles back to listen with a genial shrug. "We've got time. What's on your mind?"

Time, Therrin thinks, listening to the wind whistle around Vigil's tower, wondering how best to say it.

The darkspawn are gone, the arling at peace.

_Time_ seems like the most precious of all the Maker's gifts, and Therrin doesn't intend to waste a moment.


End file.
